THE  FURTHER  ADVENTURES 
OF     JIMMIE     DALE 

BY   FRANK  L.  PACKARD 


The  Further  Adven- 
tures of  Jimmie  Dale 

By  FRANK  L.  PACKARD 


AUTHOR  OF 

;"The  Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale," 

"The  Wire  Devils," 
"The  Sin  that  was  His,"  Etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  GEORGB  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


OOPTRIGHT,  1919, 
3T  6BOBGB   H.    DOBAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1916,    1917,   BT  THB 

STBEET    Sc.    SMITH     CORPORATION 
JR1NTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I  StlARLINQHTJE     .........  9 

II    THE  WARNING 19 

III  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCAB 32 

IV  THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT 45 

V  "DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"      .....  61 

VI  THE  REHABILITATION  OP  LAKBT  THE  BA*  ...  79 

VII    THE  BOND  ROBBERY 92 

VIII   AT  HALFPAST  ONE 106 

IX   'WARE  THE  WOLF! 115 

X   THE  CHASE 131 

XI  THE  VOICES  OP  THE  UNDERWOBLD       ....  148 

XII    IN  THE  SANCTUARY 158 

XIII  THE  SECRET  ROOM 172 

XIV  THE  LAST  CARD 184 

XV   CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT 199 

XVI    ONE  CHANCE  IN  TEN 219 

XVII  THE  DEFAULTER      ....„.«,.  233 

XVIII   ALIAS  ENGLISH  DICK 244 

XIX  THE  BEGINNING  OP  THE  END        .....  256 

XX   THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP 266 

XXI    SILVER  MAG 282 

XXII    THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY 296 

XXIII    HUNCHBACK  JOE 311 

XXTV    AT  FIVB  MINUTES  OF  TWELVE 830 


112S732 


THE  FURTHER  ADVENTURES 
OF  JIMMIE  DALE 


CHAPTER  I 

SMARLINGHUE 
f 

A  DIMINUTIVE  gas-jet's  sickly,  yellow  flame  illu- 
minated the  room  with  poverty-stricken  inadequacy ; 
high  up  on  the  wall,  bordering  the  ceiling,  the  moonlight, 
as  though  contemptuous  of  its  artificial  competitor, 
streamed  in  through  a  small,  square  window,  and  laid 
a  white,  flickering  path  to  the  door  across  a  filthy  and 
disreputable  rag  of  carpet;  also,  through  a  rent  in  the 
roller  shade,  which  was  drawn  over  a  sort  of  antiquated 
French  window  that  opened  on  a  kvel  with  the  floor  and 
in  line  with  the  top-light,  the  moonlight  disclosed  a 
narrow  and  squalid  courtyard  without. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  stood  a  battered  easel, 
while  against  the  wall  near  it,  and  upon  the  floor,  were 
a  number  of  canvases  of  different  sizes.  A  cot  bed, 
unmade,  its  covers  dirty  and  in  disorder,  occupied  the 
wall  space  opposite  the  door.  In  the  centre  of  the  mean 
and  uninviting  apartment  stood  a  table,  its  top  littered 
with  odds  and  ends,  amongst  which  the  remains  of  a 
meal,  dishes  and  food,  fraternised  gregariously  with  a 
painter's  palette,  brushes  and  paint  tubes.  A  chair  or 
two,  long  since  disabled,  and  a  rickety  washstand  com- 
pleted the  appointments. 


10         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

The  moonlight's  path  across  the  floor  wavered  sud 
denly,  the  door  opened,  was  locked  again,  and  with  a 
quick,  catlike  step  a  man  moved  along  the  side  of  the 
wall  where  the  shadows  lay  thickest  near  the  door, 
dropped  on  his  knees,  and  began  to  fumble  hurriedly  with 
the  base-board  of  the  wall,  pausing  at  every  alternate 
second  to  listen  intently. 

A  minute  passed.  A  section  of  the  base-board  was 
lifted  out,  the  man's  hand  was  thrust  inside — and 
emerged  again  with  a  large  roll  of  banknotes.  He  turned 
his  head  for  a  quick  glance  around  the  room,  his  eyes, 
burning  out  of  a  gaunt,  hollow-cheeked,  pallid  face,  held 
on  the  torn  window  shade — and  then,  in  almost  frantic 
haste,  he  thrust  the  banknotes  back  inside  the  wall,  and 
began  to  replace  the  base-board.  But  it  was  not  the 
window  shade,  nor  yet  the  courtyard  without  with  which 
he  was  concerned — it  was  the  sound  of  a  heavy  footstep 
outside  the  door. 

And  now  the  door  was  tried.  The  man  on  the  floor, 
working  with  desperate  energy  to  replace  the  base-board, 
coughed  in  an  asthmatic,  wheezing  way,  as  there  came 
the  imperative  smashing  of  a  fist  upon  the  door  panels, 
coupled  with  a  gruff,  curt  demand  for  admittance. 
Again  the  man  coughed — to  drown  perhaps  the  slight 
rasping  sound  as  the  base-board  slid  back  into  place — 
and,  rising  to  his  feet,  shuffled  hastily  to  the  door  and 
unlocked  it. 

The  door  was  flung  violently  open  from  without,  a 
heavy-built,  clean-shaven,  sharp-featured  man  stepped 
into  the  room,  slammed  the  door  shut  behind  him,  re- 
locked  it,  and  swept  a  shrewd,  inquisitive,  suspicious 
glance  about  the  place. 

"It  took  you  a  damned  long  time  to  open  that  door, 
Mister  Smarlinghue !"  he  said  sharply. 


SMARLINGHUE  11 

The  man  addressed  touched  his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  nervously,  shrank  back,  and  made  no  reply. 

The  lapel  of  the  visitor's  coat  thrown  carelessly  back 
displayed  a  police  shield  on  the  vest  beneath;  and  now, 
completing  a  preliminary  survey  of  the  surroundings, 
the  man's  eyes  narrowed  on  Smarlinghue. 

"I  guess  you  know  who  I  am,  don't  you?  Heard  of 
me  perhaps,  too — eh?  Clancy  of  headquarters  is  my 
name !"  He  laughed  menacingly,  unpleasantly. 

Smarlinghue's  clothes  were  threadbare  and  ill-fitting; 
his  coat  was  a  size  too  small  for  him,  and  from  the  short 
sleeves  protruded  blatantly  the  frayed  and  soiled  wrist- 
bands of  his  shirt.  He  twined  his  hands  together  anx- 
iously, and  retreated  further  back  into  the  room. 

"I  haven't  done  anything,  honest  to  God,  I  haven't!" 
he  whined. 

"Ain't,  eh  ?"  The  other  laughed  again.  "No,  of  course 
not!  Nobody  ever  did!  But  now  I'm  here — just 
dropped  in  socially,  you  know — I'll  have  a  look  around." 

He  began  to  move  about  the  room.  Smarlinghue,  still 
twining  his  hands  in  a  helpless,  frightened  way,  still 
circling  his  lips  nervously  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
followed  the  other's  movements  in  miserable  apprehen- 
sion with  his  eyes. 

Clancy,  as  he  had  introduced  himself,  shot  up  the 
roller  shade,  peered  out  into  the  courtyard,  yanked  the 
shade  down  again  with  a  callous  jerk  that  almost  tore  it 
from  its  fastenings,  and  strode  over  toward  the  easel, 
contemptuously  kicking  a  chair  that  happened  to  be  in 
his  way  over  onto  the  floor.  Reaching  the  easel  he  picked 
up  the  canvas  that  rested  upon  it,  stared  at  it  for  a 
moment — and  with  a  grunt  of  disdain  flung  it  away  from 
him  to  the  ground. 

There  was  a  crash  as  it  struck  the  floor,  a  ripping 


12 

sound  as  the  canvas  split,  and  with  a  pitiful  cry  Smar« 
linghue  rushed  forward  and  snatched  it  up. 

"It — it  was  sold,"  he  choked.  "I — I  was  to  get  the 
money  to-morrow.  I  have  had  bad  luck  for  a  month — • 

nothing  sold  but  this — and  now — and  now "  He 

drew  himself  up  suddenly,  and,  with  the  ruined  painting 
clutched  to  his  breast,  shook  his  other  fist  wildly.  "You 
have  no  right  here !"  he  screamed  in  fury.  "Do  you  hear ! 
I  have  not  done  anything!  I  tell  you,  I  have  not  done 
anything !  You  have  no  right  here !  I  will  make  you  pay 
for  this!  I  will!  I  will!"  His  voice  was  rising  in  a 
shrill  falsetto.  "I  will  make  you " 

"You  hold  your  tongue,"  growled  Clancy  savagely,  "or 
I'll  give  you  something  more  than  an  old  chromo  to 
make  a  row  about!  I  don't  want  any  mass  meeting  of 
your  kind  of  citizens.  Get  that  ?"  He  caught  Smarling- 
hue  roughly  by  the  shoulder,  and  pushed  him  into  a  chair 
near  the  table.  "Sit  down  there,  and  close  your  jaw!" 

Cowed,  Smarlinghue's  voice  dropped  to  a  mumble, 
and  he  let  the  torn  canvas  slip  from  his  fingers  to  the 
floor. 

Clancy  laughed  gruffly,  pulled  another  chair  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table,  sat  down  himself,  and  eyed 
Smarlinghue  coldly  for  a  moment. 

"Sold  it,  eh?"  he  observed  grimly.  "How  much  were 
you  going  to  get  for  it?" 

A  cunning  gleam  flashed  in  Smarlinghue's  eyes — and 
vanished  instantly.  He  wet  his  lips  with  his  tongue 
again. 

"Ten  dollars,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Clancy  brushed  aside  the  litter  on  the  table,  and  non- 
chalantly laid  down  a  ten-dollar  bill. 

With  a  sharp  little  cry  that  brought  on  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing, Smarlinghue  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  money, 
eagerly. 


SMARLINGHUE  18 

Clancy  drew  the  money  back  out  of  reach. 

"Oh,  no,  nothing  like  that!"  he  drawled  unpleasantly. 
"Don't  make  the  mistake  of  taking  me  for  a  fool.  I'm 
not  buying  any  ten-cent  art  treasures  at  ten  dollars  a 
throw !" 

Smarlinghue's  eyes  remained  greedily  riveted  on  the 
ten-dollar  note.  He  began  to  twine  his  hands  together 
once  more. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  muttered  tremu- 
lously. 

"Don't  you!"  retorted  the  other  shortly.  "Well,  I 
mean  exactly  what  I  say.  I'm  not  buying  any  pictures, 
I'm  buying — you,  I  have  been  keeping  an  eye  on  you  for 
the  last  three  or  four  months.  You're  just  the  guy  I've 
been  looking  for.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  there  ain't 
a  dive  or  a  roost  in  the  Bad  Lands  where  you  don't  get 
the  glad  hand — eh?" 

"I — I  haven't  done  anything!  Not  a  thing!  I — I 
swear  I  haven't!"  Smarlinghue  burst  out  frantically. 

"Aw,  forget  it!"  Clancy  permitted  a  thin  smile  to 
flicker  contemptuously  across  his  lips.  "You've  got  a 
whole  lot  of  friends  that  I'm  interested  in.  Get  the  idea? 
There  ain't  a  crook  in  New  York  that's  shy  of  you. 
You  got  a  'stand-in'  everywhere."  He  held  up  the  ten- 
dollar  bill.  "There's  more  of  these — plenty  of  'em." 

Smarlinghue  pushed  back  his  chair  now  in  a  fright- 
ened sort  of  way. 

"You — you  mean  you  want  me  for — for  a  stool 
pigeon?"  he  faltered. 

"You  got  it !"  said  Clancy  bluntly. 

Smarlinghue's  eyes  roved  about  the  room  in  a  furtive, 
terror-stricken  glance,  his  hand  passed  aimlessly  over 
his  eyes,  and  he  crouched  low  down  in  his  chair. 

"No,  no!"  he  whispered.  "No,  no — for  God's  sake, 
Mr.  Clancy,  don't  ask  me  to  do  that!  I  can't — I  can't! 


14.         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

I — I  wouldn't  be  any  good.     I — I  can't!     I — I  won't!* 

Clancy  thrust  head  and  shoulders  aggressively  across 
the  table. 

"You  will — if  you  know  what's  good  for  you!"  he 
said  evenly.  "And,  what's  more,  there's  a  little  job 
you're  going  to  break  your  hand  in  on  to-night." 

"No!  No,  no!  I  can't!  I  can't!"  Smarlinghue  flung 
out  his  arms  imploringly. 

Clancy  lowered  his  voice. 

"Cut  that  out!"  he  snapped  viciously.  "What's  the 
matter  with  you!  You'll  be  well  paid  for  it — and  have 
police  protection.  You  ought  to  know  what  that'll  mean 
to  you — eh?  You  live  like  a  gutter-snipe  here — half 
starved  most  of  the  time,  for  all  you  can  get  out  of  those 
ungodly  daubs !" 

A  curious  dignity  came  to  Smarlinghue.  He  sat  up- 
right. 

"It  is  my  art,"  he  said.  "I  have  starved  for  it  many 
years.  Some  day  I  will  get  recognition.  Some  day 
I " 

"Art — hell!"  sneered  Clancy;  and  then  he  laughed 
coarsely,  as,  his  fingers  prodding  under  the  miscellany 
of  articles  on  the  table,  he  suddenly  held  up  a  hypodermic 
syringe.  "This  is  your  art,  my  bucko !  Why,  you  poor 
boob,  don't  you  think  I  know  you!  Cocaine's  the  one 
thing  on  earth  you  live  for.  You're  stewed  to  the  eyes 
with  it  now.  Here,  just  watch  me!  Suppose" — he 
caught  the  syringe  in  a  quick  grip  between  the  fingers 
of  both  hands — "suppose  I  just  put  this  little  toy  out  of 
commission  now,  and " 

With  a  shrill  screech,  Smarlinghue  sprang  from  his 
chair,  and  clawed  like  a  demented  man  at  the  other's 
hands  for  possession  of  the  hypodermic. 

Clancy  surrendered  the  syringe  with  a  mocking  grin, 
and  shoved  Smarlinghue  backward  into  his  chair  again. 


SMARLINGHUE  15 

"Oh,  yes ;  you're  an  artist  all  right — a  coke  artist !"  he 
remarked  coolly.  "But  that's  what  makes  you  solid  in 
every  den  in  New  York,  and  that's  how  you  come  in  use- 
ful— to  me.  Well,  what  do  you  say?" 

There  was  a  hunted  look  in  Smarlinghue's  eyes. 

"They'd — they'd  kill  me,"  he  said  huskily. 

"Sure,  they  would!"  agreed  Clancy  easily.  "If  they 
found  you  out  it  would  be  good-night,  all  right — that's 
what  you're  getting  paid  for.  But" — his  voice  hardened 
—"if  you  don't  come  across,  I'll  tell  you  what  /'//  do  to 
you.  I'll " 

"You  can't  do  anything !  Not  a  thing !"  Smarlinghue 
cried  wildly.  "You  haven  "  anything  on  me  at  all.  I've 
never  done  a  thing,  not  a  sh.  ^le " 

"Oh,  I  guess  there's  enoujh  to  make  you  sweat," 
Clancy  cut  in  brutally.  "You  g,^e  me  the  icy  paw,  and 
I'll  see  that  the  tip  leaks  out  from  the  right  quarters 
that  you  are  a  stool  pigeon.  That'll  take  care  of  your 
finish,  too,  won't  it — good  and  plenty !" 

Smarlinghue  stared  miserably.  Again  and  again  his 
tongue  circled  his  lips.  Twice  he  tried  to  speak — and 
only  succeeded  in  mumbling  inarticulately. 

Clancy  got  up  from  the  table,  walked  around  it,  and, 
standing  over  the  crouched  figure  in  the  chair,  tapped 
with  his  finger  on  the  hypodermic  in  Smarlinghue's  hands. 

"And  that  ain't  all,"  he  announced  with  a  malicious 
grin.  "You  come  in  and  play  the  game  with  me,  or  I'll 
fix  it  so  that  you'll  never  get  another  squirt  of  dope  if 
you  had  a  million  bucks  to  buy  it  with — ah,  I  thought 
that  would  get  you!" 

Smarlinghue  was  on  his  feet.  The  terror  of  the 
damned  was  in  his  face. 

"No!  No!  My  God— no — not  that!  You— you 
wouldn't  do  that !"  He  reached  out  his  arms  to  the  other. 


16         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"You  knew — I've  gone  too  far  to  do  without  it.  If  I 
didn't  have  it,  I " 

"I've  seen  a  few  of  them  in  that  sort  of  jim-jams," 
said  Clancy  malevolently.  "You  can't  tell  me  anything 
about  it.  If  you  appreciate  it,  that's  enough — it's  up  to 
you.  You  heard  what  I  said.  If  you're  looking  for  that 
particular  kind  of  hell,  go  to  it.  Only  don't  kid  yourself. 
When  I  pass  the  word  to  put  the  screws  on,  the  lid's 
down  for  keeps.  Well,  what's  the  answer?  Coming 
across?  Quick  now!  I  haven't  got  all  night  to  spend 
here!" 

Smarlinghue's  hands  were  trembling  violently;  he  sat 
down  in  his  chair  in  a  pitiful,  'meet-tain  way. 

"Yes,  yes !"  he  whispered  ''Yes!  I  got  to  do  it.  I'll 
do  it,  Mr.  Clancy,  I'll  do  i* .  I'll— I'll  do  anything!" 

A  half  leer,  half  sco^.i  was  on  Clancy's  face,  as  he 
stood  regarding  the  other. 

"I  thought  you  would!"  he  grunted  roughly.  "Well 
then,  we'll  get  down  to  business — and  to-nighfs  business. 
You  know  the  back  entrance  to  Malay  John's  hang-out  ?" 

Smarlinghue's  eyes  widened  a  little  in  a  startled  way. 
He  nodded  his  head. 

"Very  good,"  said  Clancy  gruffly.  "You'll  have  no 
trouble  in  getting  in  there.  And  once  in  there  you'll 
have  no  trouble  in  getting  up  to  Malay's  private  den. 
I've  been  wised  up  that  Malay  and  a  few  of  his  pals 
are  getting  ready  to  pull  off  a  little  game  uptown.  I 
want  the  dope  on  it — all  of  it.  They've  been  meeting  in 
Malay's  den  for  the  last  few  nights — understand  ?  They 
drift  in  between  half  past  eleven  and  twelve — you  get 
there  a  little  before  half  past  eleven.  You  haven't  any- 
thing to  be  afraid  of,  so  don't  lose  your  nerve.  Malay 
himself  is  away  this  evening  and  won't  be  back  before 
midnight;  and  the  door  won't  be  locked,  as  otherwise 
the  others  couldn't  get  in.  Everything's  clear  for  you. 


SMARLINGHUE  17 

Savvy?  Once  you're  in  the  room,  there's  plenty  of  places 
to  hide — and  that's  all  you've  got  to  do,  except  keep 
your  ears  and  eyes  open.  Get  the  lay?" 

Again  Smarlinghue  nodded — unhappily  this  time. 

"All  right!"  said  Clancy  crisply.  "I'm  not  coming 
around  here  any  more — unless  I  have  to.  It  might  put 
you  in  bad.  You  can  make  your  reports  and  get  your 
orders  through  Whitie  Karn  at  his  dance  hall." 

"Whitie  Karn !"  The  exclamation  seemed  to  come  in- 
voluntarily, in  a  quick,  frightened  way  from  Smarling- 
hue. 

Clancy's  lips  twisted  in  a  smile. 

"Kind  of  a  jolt — eh — Smarlinghue?  You  didn't  sus- 
pect he  was  one  of  us,  did  you  ? — and  there's  more  than 
Whitie  Karn.  Well,  it  will  teach  you  to  be  careful.  Sup- 
pose Whitie,  for  instance,  passed  the  word  that  you  were 
a  snitch — eh?  It  won't  do  you  any  harm  to  keep  that 
in  mind  once  in  a  while."  He  moved  over  to  the  door. 
"Well,  good-night,  Smarlinghue!  I  guess  you  under- 
stand, don't  you?  You  ought  to  be  a  pretty  valuable 

man,  and  I  expect  a  lot  from  you.  If  I  don't  get  it " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  held  Smarlinghue  for  an  in- 
stant with  half -closed,  threatening  eyes — and  then  the 
door  closed  behind  him. 

Smarlinghue  did  not  move.  The  steps  receded  from 
the  door,  and  died  away  along  the  passage.  A  minute, 
two  minutes  went  by.  Suddenly  Smarlinghue  pushed  back 
the  wristband  of  his  shirt,  and  pricked  the  skin  with  the 
needle  of  the  hypodermic.  The  door,  without  a  sound, 
swung  wide  open.  Clancy  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Good-night  again,  Smarlinghue,"  he  said  coolly. 

The  hypodermic  fell  clattering  to  the  floor;  Smarling- 
hue jumped  nervously  in  his  chair. 

Clancy  laughed — significantly ;  and,  without  closing  the 
door  this  time,  strode  away  again.  His  steps  echoed 


18         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

back  from  the  passageway,  the  front  door  opened  and 
shut,  his  boot  heel  rang  on  the  pavement  without — and 
all  was  silence. 

Smarlinghue  rose  from  his  chair,  shuffled  across  the 
room,  closed  the  door  and  locked  it,  then  shuffled  back 
again  to  the  roller  shade  over  the  little  French  window, 
and,  taking  a  pin  from  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  fastened 
the  rent  together. 

A  passing  cloud  for  a  moment  obscured  the  moonrays 
from  the  top-light;  the  gas-jet  choked  with  air,  splut- 
tered, burning  with  a  tiny,  blue,  hissing  flame;  then  the 
white  path  lay  across  the  floor  again,  and  the  yellow 
flare  of  gas  spurted  up  into  its  pitiful  fulness — and  in 
Smarlinghue's  stead  stood  another  man.  Gone  were  the 
stooping  shoulders,  gone  the  hollow  cheeks,  the  thin, 
extended  lips,  the  widened  nostrils,  as  the  little  distorting 
pieces  of  wax  were  removed;  and  out  of  the  metamor- 
phosis, hard  and  grim,  set  like  chiselled  marble,  was  re- 
vealed the  face  of — Jimmie  Dale. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  WARNING 

FOR  a  moment  Jimmie  Dale  stood  there  hesitant,  the 
long,  slim,  tapering  ringers  curled  into  the  palms  of 
his  hands,  his  fists  clenched  tightly,  a  dull  red  suffusing 
his  cheeks  and  burning  through  the  masterly  created  pal- 
lor of  his  make-up ;  and  then  slowly  as  though  his  mind 
were  in  dismay,  he  walked  across  the  room,  turned  off 
the  gas,  and  going  to  the  cot  flung  himself  down  upon  it. 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  What  ghastly  irony  had  prompted 
Clancy  to  sort  him  out  for  a  police  spy?  If  he  refused, 
if  he  attempted  to  stall  on  Clancy,  Clancy's  threat  to 
stamp  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  underworld  as  a  snitch 
meant  ruin  and  disaster,  absolute  and  final,  for  "Smarl- 
inghue"  would  then  have  to  disappear ;  on  the  other  hand, 
to  be  allied  with  the  police  increased  his  present  risks  a 
thousandfold — and  they  were  already  hazardous  enough ! 
It  meant  constant  surveillance  by  the  police  that  would 
hamper  him,  rob  him  of  his  freedom  of  movement,  add- 
ing difficulties  and  perils  innumerable  to  the  enacting  of 
this  new  dual  personality  of  his. 

Jimmie  Dale's  hands  clenched  more  fiercely.  It  was 
an  impossible  situation — it  was  untenable.  That  he  could 
play  his  role  in  the  underworld  with  only  the  under- 
world to  reckon  with — yes;  but  with  the  police  as  well, 
watching  him  in  his  character  of  a  poor,  drug-wrecked 
artist,  constantly  in  touch  with  him,  likely  at  any  moment 
to  make  the  discovery  that  Smarlinghue  and  Jimmie  Dale, 

19 


20         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  millionaire  clubman,  a  leader  in  New  York's  most 
exclusive  set,  were  one  and  the  same — no !  And  yet  what 
was  he  to  do  ?  With  the  Gray  Seal  it  had  been  different. 
Then,  police  and  underworld  alike  were  openly  allied  as 
common  enemies  against  him — but  none  had  known  who 
the  Gray  Seal  was  until  that  night  when  the  Magpie  had 
roused  the  Bad  Lands  like  a  hive  of  swarming  horneto 
with  the  news  that  the  Gray  Seal  was  Larry  the  Bat; 
none  had  known  until  that  night  when  it  was  accepted  as 
a  fact  that  Larry  the  Bat,  and  therefore  the  Gray  Seal 
had  perished  miserably  in  the  tenement  fire. 

Around  the  squalid  room,  lighted  now  only  by  th« 
moonrays,  Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  travelled  slowly,  abstract 
edly.  Yes,  in  that  one  particular  it  was  different;  but 
here  was  the  New  Sanctuary,  and  again  he  was  living 
the  old  life  in  close,  intimate  companionship  with  the, 
underworld — the  old  life  that  only  six  months  ago  ht 
had  thought  to  have  done  with  forever! 

He  turned  his  face  suddenly  to  the  wall,  and  lay  very 
still — only  his  hands  still  remained  tightly  clenched,  and 
the  hard,  set  look  on  his  face  grew  harder  still. 

Six  months  ago,  like  some  mocking  illusion,  like  some 
phantom  of  unreality  that  jeered  at  him,  it  seemed  now, 
he  had  lived  for  a  few  short  weeks  in  a  dreamland  of 
wondrous  happiness,  a  happiness  that  all  his  own  great 
wealth  had  never  been  able  to  bring  him,  a  happiness  that 
no  wealth  could  ever  buy — the  joy  of  her — the  glad 
promise  that  for  always  their  lives  would  be  lived 
together — and  then,  as  though  she  had  vanished  utterly 
from  the  face  of  the  earth,  she  was  gone. 

The  Tocsin !  Marie  LaSalle  to  the  world,  she  was  al- 
ways, and  always  would  be,  the  Tocsin  to  him.  Gone! 
A  hand  unclenched  and  passed  heavily  across  his  eyes 
and  flirted  the  hair  back  from  his  forehead.  She  had 
taken  her  place  in  her  own  world  again ;  her  fortune  had 


THE  WARNING  21] 

been  restored  to  her,  its  management  placed  in  the  hands 
of  a  trust  company ;  the  interior  of  the  mansion  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  with  its  sliding  walls  and  secret  passages,  that 
had  served  as  headquarters  for  the  Crime  Club,  was  in 
the  process  of  reconstruction — and  she  had  disappeared. 

It  had  come  suddenly,  and  yet — as  he  understood  now, 
though  then  he  had  only  attributed  it  to  an  exaggerated 
prudence  on  her  part — not  without  warning.  In  the  three 
weeks  that  had  intervened  between  the  night  of  the  fire 
in  the  old  Sanctuary  and  her  disappearance,  she  had  per- 
mitted him  to  see  her  only  at  such  times  and  at  such 
intervals  as  would  be  consistent  with  the  most  casual  of 
acquaintanceships.  He  remembered  well  enough  now 
her  answer  to  his  constant  protests,  an  answer  that  was 
always  the  same.  "Jimmie,"  she  had  said,  "a  sudden 
intimacy  between  us  would  undo  all  that  you  have  done — • 
you  know  that.  It  would  not  only  renew,  but  would  be 
almost  proof  positive  to  those  who  are  left  of  the  Crime 
Club  that  their  suspicions  of  Jimmie  Dale  were  justified, 
and  from  that  as  a  starting  point  it  would  not  take  a  very 
clever  brain  to  identify  Jimmie  Dale  as  Larry  the  Bat— 
and  the  Gray  Seal.  Don't  you  see !  You  never  knew  me 
before  all  the  misery  and  trouble  came — there  was  noth- 
ing between  us  then.  To  see  too  much  of  each  other 
now,  to  have  too  much  in  common  now  would  only  be 
to  court  disaster.  Our  intimacy  must  appear  to  come 
gradually,  to  come  naturally.  We  must  wait — a  year  at 
least — Jimmie." 

A  year!  And  within  a  few  hours  following  the  last 
occasion  on  which  she  had  said  that,  Jason,  his  butler, 
had  laid  the  morning  mail  upon  the  breakfast  table,  and 
he  had  found  her  note. 

It  seemed  as  though  he  were  living  that  moment  over 
again  now,  as  he  lay  here  on  the  cot  in  the  darkness— 
his  eagerness  as  he  had  recognised  the  well-known  hand 


22         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

amongst  the  pile  of  correspondence,  the  thrill  akin  to 
tenderness  with  which  he  had  opened  the  note ;  and  then 
the  utter  misery  of  it  all,  the  room  swirling  about  him, 
the  blind  agony  in  which  he  had  risen  from  his  chair,  and, 
as  he  had  groped  his  way  from  the  room,  the  sudden,  piti- 
ful anxiety  on  the  faithful  old  Jason's  face,  which,  even 
in  his  own  distress,  he  had  not  failed  to  note  and  under- 
stand and  be  grateful  for. 

There  had  been  only  a  few  words  in  the  note,  and  those 
few  carefully  chosen,  guarded,  like  the  notes  of  old,  lest 
they  should  fall  into  a  stranger's  hand ;  but  he  had  read 
only  too  clearly  between  the  lines.  She  had  had  only 
far  too  much  more  reason  for  fear  than  she  had  ad- 
mitted to  him;  and  those  fears  had  crystallised  into 
realities.  One  sentence  in  the  note  stood  out  above  all 
others,  a  sentence  that  had  lived  with  him  since  that 
morning  months  ago,  the  words  seeming  to  visualise  her, 
high  in  her  courage,  brave  in  the  unselfishness  of  her 
love :  "Jimrcri6*  I  must  not,  I  cannot,  I  will  not  bring  you 
into  the  shadows  again ;  I  must  fight  this  out  alone." 

He  recalled  the  feverish  haste  in  which  he  had  acted 
that  morning — the  one  thought  that  had  possessed  him 
being  to  reach  her  if  possible  before  she  could  put  her 
designs  into  execution.  Benson,  his  chauffeur,  reckless 
of  speed  laws,  had  rushed  him  to  the  hotel  where,  pend- 
ing the  remodelling  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  mansion,  she 
had  taken  rooms.  Here,  he  learned  that  she  had  given 
up  her  apartments  on  the  previous  afternoon,  and  that  it 
was  understood  she  had  left  for  an  extended  travel  tour, 
and  that  her  baggage  had  been  taken  to  the  Pennsylvania 
Station.  From  the  hotel  he  had  gone  to  the  trust  com- 
pany in  whose  hands  she  had  placed  the  management  ot 
her  estate.  With  ^.  few  additional  details,  disquieting 
rather  than  otherwise,  it  was  the  story  of  the  hotel  over 
again.  They  did  not  know  where  she  was,  except  that 


THE  WARNING  23 

she  had  told  them  she  was  going  away  for  a  long  trip, 
*iad  given  them  the  fullest  powers  to  handle  her  affairs, 
and,  on  the  previous  afternoon,  had  drawn  a  very  large 
;uim  of  money  before  leaving  the  institution. 

He  had  returned  then,  like  a  man  dazed,  to  his  home  on 
Kiverside  Drive,  and  had  locked  himself  in  his  den  to 
think  it  out.  She  had  covered  her  tracks  well — and  had 
vtone  it  in  a  masterly  way  because  she  had  done  it 
simply.  It  was  possible  that  she  had  actually  gone  away 
for  a  trip;  but  it  was  more  probable  that  she  had  not. 
He  had  had,  of  course,  no  means  of  knowing ;  but  the  sort 
of  peril  that  threatened  her,  his  intuition  told  him,  was 
not  such  as  to  be  diverted  by  the  mere  expedient  of 
absenting  herself  from  New  York  temporarily;  and,  be- 
sides, she  had  said  that  she  would  fight  it  out.  She  could 
hardly  do  that  in  the  person  of  Marie  LaSalle,  or  away 
from  New  York.  She  was  clever,  resourceful,  resolute 
and  fearless — and  those  very  traits  opened  a  vista  of 
possibilities  that  left  his  mind  staggering  blindly  as  in 
A  maze.  She  was  gone — and  alone  in  the  face  of  deadly 
oienace.  He  remembered  then  the  curious,  unnatural 
calmness  underlying  the  mad  whirling  of  his  brain  at 
the  thought  that  that  was  not  literally  true,  that  she  was 
flot,  nor  would  she  ever  be  alone — while  he  lived.  It 
was  only  a  question  of  how  he  could  help  her.  It  had 
i>eemed  almost  certain  that  the  danger  threatening  her 
r.ame  from  one  of  two  sources — either  from  those  who 
*vere  left  of  the  Crime  Club,  relentless,  savage  for  ven- 
geance on  account  of  the  ruin  and  disaster  that  had  over- 
taken them;  or  else  from  the  Magpie,  and  behind  the 
Magpie,  massed  like  some  Satanic  phalanx,  every  denizen 
of  the  underworld,  for  Silver  Mag  had  disappeared 
coincidently  with  Larry  the  Bat,  coincidently  with  the 
Magpie's  attempted  robbery  of  the  supposed  Henry  La- 
Salle's  safe,  to  which  plot  she  was  held  by  the  under- 


24         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

world  to  be  a  party,  coincidently  with  the  dispersion  of 
the  Crime  Club,  and  coincidently  with  the  reappearance 
of  the  heiress  Marie  LaSalle — and,  further,  Silver  Mag 
stood  condemned  to  death  in  the  Bad  Lands  as  the  ac- 
complice of  the  Gray  Seal.  But  Silver  Mag  had  disap- 
peared. Had  the  underworld,  prompted  by  the  Magpie, 
solved  the  riddle — did  it  know,  or  guess,  or  suspect  that 
Silver  Mag  was  Marie  LaSalle? 

Which  was  it?  The  Crime  Club,  or  the  Magpie? 
Here  again  he  could  not  know,  though  he  inclined  to  the 
belief  that  it  was  the  latter;  but  here,  in  either  case,  the 
means  of  knowing,  of  helping  her,  the  way,  the  road, 
was  clearly  denned — and  the  road  was  the  road  to  the 
underworld.  But  Larry  the  Bat  was  dead  and  the  road 
was  barred.  And  then  a  half  finished  painting  standing 
on  an  easel  at  the  rear  of  his  den  had  brought  him  in- 
spiration. It  was  one  of  his  hobbies — and  it  swung  wida 
again  for  him  the  door  of  the  underworld.  Non«,  in  a 
broken-down,  disappointed,  drug-shattered  artist,  would 
recognise  Larry  the  Bat!  The  only  similarity  between 
the  two — the  one  thing  that  must  of  necessity  be  the  same 
in  order  to  explain  plausibly  his  intimacy  with  the  dens 
and  lairs  of  Crimeland,  the  one  thing  that  would,  if  noth- 
ing more,  assure  an  unsuspicious,  tolerant  acceptance  of 
his  presence  there,  was  that,  like  Larry  the  Bat,  he  would 
assume  the  role  of  a  confirmed  dope  fiend;  but  as  there 
were  many  dope  fiends,  thousands  of  them  in  the  Bad 
Lands,  that  point  of  similarity,  even  if  Larry  the  Bat 
were  not  believed  to  be  dead,  held  little,  if  any,  risk.  For 
the  rest,  it  was  easy  enough ;  and  so  there  had  come  into 
being  these  wretched  quarters  here,  the  New  Sanctuary 
— and  Smarlinghue. 

But  the  mere  assumption  of  a  new  role  was  not  all— • 
it  was  not  there  that  the  difficulty  lay;  it  was  in  gaining 
for  Smarlinghue  the  confidence  of  the  underworld  that 


THE  WARNING  25 

Larry  the  Bat  had  once  held.  And  that  had  taken  time — 
was  not  even  yet  an  accomplished  fact.  The  intimate, 
personal  acquaintance  of  Larry  the  Bat  with  every  crook 
and  dive  in  Gangland  had  aided  him,  as  Smarlinghue,  to 
gain  an  initial  foothold,  but  his  complete  establishment 
there  had  necessarily  had  to  be  of  Smarlinghue's  own 
making.  And  it  had  taken  time.  Six  months  had  gone 
now,  six  months  that,  as  far  as  the  Tocsin  was  concerned, 
had  been  barren  of  results  mainly,  he  encouraged  him- 
self to  believe,  because  his  efforts  had  been  always  limited 
and  held  in  check;  six  months  of  anxious,  careful  build- 
ing, and  now,  just  as  he  was  regaining  the  old-time  con- 
fidence that  Larry  the  Bat  had  enjoyed,  just  as  he  was 
reaching  that  point  where  the  whispered  secrets  of  the 
underworld  once  more  reached  his  ears  and  there  was  a 
promise  of  success  if,  indeed,  she  were  still  alive,  had 
come  this  thing  to-night  that  spelt  ruin  to  his  hopes  and 
ultimate  disaster  to  himself. 

If  she  were  still  alive!  The  thought  came  flashing 
back;  and  with  a  low,  involuntary  moan,  mingling 
anguish  of  mind  with  a  bitter,  merciless  fury,  he  turned 
restlessly  upon  the  cot.  If  she  were  still  alive!  No 
sign,  no  word  had  come  from  her ;  he  had  found  no  clue, 
no  trace  of  her  as  yet  through  the  channels  of  the  under- 
world; his  surveillance  of  the  Magpie,  whose  friendship 
lie  had  begun  to  cultivate,  had,  so  far,  proved  fruitless. 

It  came  upon  him  now  again,  the  fear,  the  dread, 
which  he  had  known  so  often  in  the  past  few  months, 
that  seemed  to  try  to  undermine  his  resolution  to  go  for- 
ward, that  whispered  speciously  that  it  was  useless — 
that  she  was  dead.  And  misery  came.  And  he  lay  there 
staring  unseeingly  into  the  moonrays  as  they  streamed 
in  through  the  top-light.  , 

Time  passed.  Then  a  smile  played  over  Jimmie  Dale's 
lips,  half  grim,  half  wistful;  and  the  strong,  square  jaw 


96         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

was  suddenly  out-flung.  If  she  was  alive,  he  would  find 
her;  if  she  was  dead — his  clenched  hand  lifted  above  his 
head  as  though  to  register  a  vow — the  man  or  men,  her 
murderer  or  murderers,  whether  to-morrow  or  in  the 
years  to  come,  would  know  a  day  of  reckoning  when  they 
should  pay  the  debt ! 

But  that  was  for  the  future.  To-night  there  was  this 
vital,  imminent  danger  that  he  had  to  face,  this  decision 
to  make  whose  pros  and  cons  seemed  each  to  hold  an 
equal  measure  of  dismay.  What  was  he  to  do? 

He  laughed  shortly,  ironically  after  a  moment.  It  was 
as  though  some  malignant  ingenuity  had  conspired  to 
trap  him.  He  was  caught  either  way.  What  was  he 
to  do?  The  question  kept  pounding  at  his  brain,  grow- 
ing more  sinister  with  each  repetition.  What  was  he  to 
do  ?  Defy  the  police — and  be  branded  as  a  stool-pigeon, 
a  snitch,  an  informer  in  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the 
underworld!  He  could  not  do  that.  Everything,  all 
that  meant  anything  in  life  to  him  now  would  be  swept 
from  his  reach  at  even  the  first  breath  of  suspicion.  Nor 
was  it  an  idle  threat  that  his  unwelcome  visitor  had 
made.  He  was  not  fool  enough  to  blind  himself  on  that 
score — it  could  be  only  too  easily  accomplished.  And 
on  the  other  hand — but  what  was  the  use  of  torturing 
his  brain  with  a  never-ending  rehearsal  of  details?  Was 
there  a  middle  course?  That  was  his  only  chance. 
Was  there  a  way  to  safeguard  Smarlinghue  and,  yes, 
this  miserable  hovel  of  a  place,  priceless  now  as  his  new 
Sanctuary. 

He  followed  the  moonpath's  slant  with  his  eyes  to 
where  it  touched  the  floor  and  disclosed  the  greasy, 
threadbare,  pitiful  carpet.  A  grim  whimsicality  fell  upon 
him.  It  would  be  too  bad  to  lose  it!  It  was  luxury  to 
what  Larry  the  Bat  had  known!  There  had  not  even 
been  a  carpet  in  the  old  Sanctuary,  and — he  sat  sud- 


THE  WARNING  27 

demly  bolt  upright  on  the  cot,  his  eyes,  that  had  mechan- 
ically travelled  on  along  the  moonpath,  strained  now 
upon  where  the  light  fell  upon  the  threshold  of  the  door. 
There  was  a  little  white  patch  there,  a  most  curious  little 
white  patch — that  had  not  been  there  when  he  had 
thrown  himself  on  the  cot.  Came  a  sudden,  incredulous 
thought  that  sent  the  blood  whipping  fiercely  through  his 
veins;  and  with  a  low  cry,  in  mad,  feverish  haste  now, 
he  leaped  from  the  cot  and  across  the  room. 

It  was  an  envelope  that  had  been  thrust  in  tinder  the 
door.  In  an  instant  he  had  snatched  it  up  from  the 
floor,  and  in  another,  acting  instinctively,  even  while  he 
realised  the  futility  of  what  he  did,  he  wrenched  the  door 
open,  stared  out  into  a  dark  and  empty  passageway — 
and,  with  a  strange,  almost  hysterical  laugh,  closed  arid 
locked  the  door  again. 

There  was  no  writing  on  the  envelope ;  there  was  not 
light  enough  to  have  deciphered  it  if  there  had  been — 
but  he  had  need  for  neither  writing  nor  light.  Those 
long,  slim,  tapering  fingers,  those  wonderful  fingers  of 
Jimmie  Dale,  that  seemed  to  combine  all  human  faculties 
in  their  sensitive  tips,  had  already  telegraphed  their  mes- 
sage to  his  brain — it  was  the  same  texture  of  paper  that 
she  always  used — it  was  from  her — it  was  from  the 
Tocsin. 

Joy,  gladness,  a  relief  so  terrific  as  it  surged  upon  him 
as  to  leave  him  for  the  moment  physically  weak,  held 
him  in  thrall,  and  he  stumbled  back  across  the  room,  and 
slipped  down  into  a  chair  before  the  table,  and  dropped 
his  head  forward  into  his  arms,  the  note  tightly  clasped 
in  his  hand.  She  was  alive.  The  Tocsin  was  alive — • 
and  well — and  here  in  New  York — and  free — and  they 
had  not  caught  her.  It  meant  all  those  things,  the  com- 
ing and  the  manner  of  the  coming  of  this  note.  A  deep 
thankfulness  filled  his  heart;  it  seemed  that  it  was  only 


28         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

now  he  realised  the  full  measure  of  the  fear  and  anxiety, 
the  strain  under  which  he  had  been  labouring  for  so 
many  months.  She  was  alive — the  Tocsin  was  alive. 
It  was  like  some  wonderful  song  that  filled  his  soul, 
excluding  all  else.  How  little  the  contents  of  the  note 
itself  mattered — the  one  great,  glorious  fact  for  the 
moment  was  that  she  was  alive! 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Jimmie  Dale  raised  his  head, 
and  then  he  got  up  suddenly  from  his  chair,  and  lit  the 
gas.  But  even  then  he  hesitated  as  he  turned  the  note 
over,  speculatively  now,  in  his  fingers.  So  she  knew 
him  as  Smarlinghue!  In  some  way  she  had  found  that 
out!  His  brows  gathered  abstractedly,  then  cleared 
again.  Well,  at  any  rate,  it  was  added  proof  that  so  fat 
her  cleverness  had  completely  outwitted  those  who  had 
pitted  themselves  against  her — so  much  so  that  even  her 
freedom  of  action,  in  whatever  role  she  had  assumed, 
waji  still  left  open  to  her. 

He  tore  the  envelope  open.  There  was  no  preface  to 
the  note,  no  "Dear  Philanchropic  Crook"  as  there  had 
always  been  in  the  old  days — instead,  the  single,  closely- 
written  sheet  began  abruptly,  the  writing  itself  indicating 
that  it  had  been  composed  in  desperate  haste.  He  glanced 
quickly  over  the  first  few  lines. 

"You  should  not  have  done  this.  You  should  never 
have  come  into  the  underworld  again.  I  begged,  I  im- 
plored you  not  to  do  so.  And  now  you  are  in  danger 
to-night.  I  can  only  hope  and  pray  that  this  will  reach 
you  in  time,  and — — "  He  read  on,  in  a  startled  way 
now,  to  the  end ;  then  read  the  note  over  again 
more  slowly,  this  time  muttering  snatches  of  it  aloud: 
".  .  .  Chicago  .  .  .  Slimmy  Jack  and  Malay  .  .  .  Birdie 
Lee  .  ..  .  released  from  Sing  Sing  to-day  .  .  .  triangular 
scar  on  forehead  over  right  eye.  .  .  ." 

And  then,  for  a  little  while,  Jimmie  Dale  stood  there 


THE  WARNING  29 

staring  about  the  room,  motionless,  rigid  as  stone,  save 
that  his  fingers  moved  in  an  automatic,  mechanical  way 
as  they  began  to  tear  the  note  into  little  shreds.  But 
presently  into  his  face  there  crept  a  menacing  look, 
and  an  angry  red  began  to  tinge  his  cheeks,  and  his 
jaws  clamped  ominously. 

So  that  was  the  game  at  Malay  John's,  was  it  ?  Birdie 
Lee  was  out  again !  She  had  not  needed  to  mention  any 
scar  to  enable  him  to  identify  Birdie  Lee.  He  knew  the 
man  of  old.  The  slickest  of  them  all,  the  cleverest  of 
them  all,  before  he  had  been  caught  and  sent  to  Sing 
Sing  for  a  five-years'  term,  was  Birdie  Lee — the  one 
man  of  them  all  that  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  might  regard  as 
a  rival,  so  to  speak,  where  the  mastery  of  the  intricate 
mechanism  of  a  vaunted  and  much  advertised  "guaran- 
teed burglar-proof  safe"  was  concerned!  And  Birdie 
Lee  was  out  again! 

There  was  danger  if  he  went  to  Malay  John's,  she 
had  said — and  it  was  true.  But  what  if  he  did  not  go! 
What,  for  instance,  if  Birdie  Lee  went  through  with  this 
night's  work! 

Jimmie  Dale  walked  slowly  across  the  room,  halted 
before  the  wall  near  the  door,  stood  for  an  instant 
hesitant  there — and  then,  as  though  in  a  sudden,  final 
decision,  dropped  down  on  his  knees,  and,  working  swift- 
ly, removed  the  section  of  the  base-board  from  the 
wall  for  the  second  time  that  night. 

Out  came  the  neatly  folded  clothes  of  Jimmie  Dale; 
and  with  them,  serving  him  so  well  in  the  days  gone  by, 
the  leather  girdle,  or  undervest,  with  its  stout-sewn, 
upright  pockets  in  which  nestled,  in  an  array  of  fine, 
blue-steel,  highly  tempered  instruments,  a  compact 
powerful  burglar's  kit.  It  was  the  one  thing  that  he 
had  saved  from  the  fire  in  the  old  Sanctuary — and  that 
more  by  accident  than  design.  He  had  been  wearing  the 


80         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

girdle  that  night  when  he  had  stolen  into  the  Crime 
Club,  and  afterwards  had  returned  to  the  Sanctuary  with 
the  intention  of  destroying  forever  all  traces  of  Larry 
the  Bat ;  and  then,  only  half  dressed,  as  he  was  changing 
into  the  clothes  of  Jimmie  Dak,  the  alarm  had  come 
before  he  had  taken  off  the  girdle,  and,  without  thought 
of  it  again  at  the  time,  he  had  still  been  wearing  it  when 
he  had  made  his  escape.  He  looked  at  it  now  for  a 
moment  grimly — and  smiled  in  a  mirthless  way.  He  had 
not  used  it  since  that  night,  and  that  night  he  had  never 
meant  or  thought  to  use  it  again — only  to  destroy  it ! 

He  reached  into  the  aperture  in  the  wall  once  more, 
drew  out  a  pocket  flashlight  and  an  automatic  pistol,  and 
laid  them  down  beside  the  clothes  and  the  leather  girdle;, 
then,  pulling  off  his  coat  and  shirt,  he  ran  noiselessly 
across  the  room  to  the  washstand.  A  few  drops  from  a 
tiny  phial  poured  into  the  water,  and  the  pallor,  the 
sickly  hue  from  his  face  was  gone.  It  was  to  be  Jimmie 
Dale — not  Smarlinghue — who  would  keep  the  rendezvous 
at  Malay  John's! 

And  now  he  was  back  across  the  room  once  more, 
turning  out  the  light  as  he  passed  the  gas-jet.  The 
leather  girdle,  that  went  on  much  after  the  fashion  of  a 
life-preserver,  was  fastened  over  his  shoulders  and  se- 
cured around  his  waist.  The  remainder  of  his  clothes 
were  stripped  off  with  lightning  speed,  and  in  their  place 
were  donned  the  fashionably  tailored,  immaculate  tweeds 
of  Jimmie  Dale.  It  was  like  some  quick-moving, 
shadowy  pantomime  in  the  moonlight.  He  gathered  up 
the  discarded  garments,  tucked  them  into  the  opening  in 
the  wall,  replaced  the  baseboard,  slipped  the  automatic 
and  flashlight  into  the  side  pockets  of  his  coat — and 
stood  up,  his  fingers  feeling  swiftly  over  his  vest  and 
under  the  back  of  his  coat  to  guard  against  the  pos- 


THE  WARNING  31 

sibility  of  any  tell-tale  bulge  from  the  leather  girdle 
underneath. 

An  instant  he  stood  glancing  critically  about  him ;  then 
the  roller  shade  over  the  window  was  lifted  aside,  the 
window  itself,  on  carefully  oikd  hinges,  was  opened 
noiselessly,  closed  again — and,  hugged  close  against  the 
wall  of  the  building,  hidden  in  the  black  shadows,  Jim- 
mie  Dale,  so  silent  as  to  be  almost  uncanny  in  his  move- 
ments, crept  along  the  few  intervening  feet  to  the  fence 
that  enclosed  the  courtyard.  Here,  next  to  the  wall,  a 
loosened  plank  swung  outward  at  a  touch,  and  he  was 
standing  in  a  narrow,  black  areaway  beyond.  There  was 
only  the  depth  of  the  house  between  himself  and  the 
street,  and  he  paused  now,  crouched  motionless  against 
the  wall,  listening.  He  heard  no  footfalls  from  the  pave- 
ment—only, like  a  distant  murmur,  the  night  sounds  from 
the  Bowery,  a  block  away — only  the  muffled  roar  of  an 
elevated  train.  The  way  was  presumably  clear,  and  he 
moved  forward  again — cautiously.  He  reached  the  front 
of  the  building,  which,  like  the  old  Sanctuary,  was  a 
tenement  of  the  poorer  class,  paused  once  more,  this 
time  to  peer  quickly  up  and  down  the  dark,  ill-lighted 
cross  street — and,  satisfied  that  he  was  safe  from  obser- 
vation, stepped  out  on  the  sidewalk,  and  began  to  walk 
nonchalantly  along  to  the  Bowery. 

And  here,  at  the  corner,  under  a  street  lamp  he 
consulted  his  watch.  It  was  ten  o'clock!  He  smiled  a 
little  ironically.  Certainly,  they  would  hardly  expect 
him  as  early  as  that!  Well,  he  would  be  a  little  ahead 
of  time,  that  was  all! 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCAR 

T IMMIE  DALE  walked  on  again,  rapidly  now,  heading 
•J  down  the  Bowery.  At  the  expiration  of  perhaps  ten 
minutes,  he  turned  east ;  and  still  a  few  minutes  later,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Chatham  Square,  plunged  suddenly 
into  a  dark  alleyway — there  was,  of  course,  as  there  was 
to  all  such  places,  an  unobtrusive  entrance  to  Malay 
John's. 

His  lips  tightened  a  little  as  he  moved  quietly  forward. 
To  venture  here  in  an  unknown  character  was  not  far 
from  being  tantamount,  if  he  were  discovered,  to  taking 
his  life  in  his  hands.  Malay  John  was  a  queer  customer 
and  a  bad  enemy,  though  counted  "straight"  by  the 
underworld,  and  trusted  by  the  crooks  and  near-crooks  as 
few  other  men  were  in  the  Bad  Lands.  And,  if  Malay 
John  was  queer,  the  place  he  ran  was  queerer  still. 
Ostensibly  he  conducted  a  dance  hall,  and  a  profitable 
one  at  that;  but  below  the  dance  hall,  known  only  to 
the  initiated,  deep  down  in  a  sub-cellar,  was  perhaps  the 
most  remunerative  gambling  joint  and  pipe  lay-out  in 
Crimeland. 

Jimmie  Dale  halted  before  a  doorway  in  the  alley.  The 
rear  of  a  low  building  rose  black  and  unlighted  above 
him.  A  confused  jangle  from  a  tinny  piano,  accompany- 
ing a  blatant  cornet  and  a  squeaky  violin,  mingled  with 
the  dull  scrape  of  many  feet,  laughter,  voices,  singing — • 
the  dance  hall  at  the  front  of  the  building;  was  in  full 


as 

*wing.  He  glanced  sharply  up  and  down  the  dark  alley- 
way, then,  leaning  forward,  placed  his  ear  to  the  panel 
of  the  door — and  the  next  instant  opened  the  door  softly 
;md  stepped  inside. 

It  was  pitch  black  here,  but  it  was  familiar  ground  to 
Larry  the  Bat  in  the  old  days,  and  therefore  to  Smarling- 
hue  in  the  new.  The  short  passageway  in  which  he  was 
standing  terminated,  he  knew,  in  a  rear  entrance  to  the 
dance  hall,  which  was  always  kept  locked  and  used  only 
by  Malay  John  himself,  and  which  was  just  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  that  led  upward  to  Malay  John's  combina- 
tion of  private  den,  office,  and  sleeping  apartment ;  while 
at  the  side  of  the  passage,  half  way  along,  was  that  other 
door,  always  guarded  on  the  inside,  that  required  an 
"open  sesame"  to  gain  admittance  to  the  dive  below. 

And  now  he  crept  stealthily  past  this  latter  door, 
reached  the  staircase,  and  went  swiftly  up  to  the  landing 
above.  Here  another  door  barred  his  way,  and  here 
again  he  placed  his  ear  to  the  panel — but  this  time  to 
listen,  it  seemed,  interminably.  Every  faculty  was 
strained  and  alert  now.  He  could  take  no  chances  here, 
and  the  uproar  from  the  dance  hall  below,  while  it  had 
safeguarded  his  ascent  of  the  stairs,  was  confusing  now 
and  by  no  means  an  unmixed  blessing. 

Still  he  crouched  there,  his  ear  to  the  panel — and  then, 
satisfied  at  last,  he  tried  the  door.  It  was  locked. 

"The  penalty  of  being  early !"  murmured  Jimmie  Dale 
'softly  to  himself. 

His  hand  reached  in  under  his  vest  to  one  of  the 
pockets  in  the  leather  girdle,  and  a  tiny  steel  instrument 
was  inserted  in  the  lock.  There  was  a  curious  snipping 
sound,  the  doorknob  turned  slowly  under  his  hand ;  then 
•cautiously,  inch  by  inch,  he  pushed  the  door  open, 
slipped  through — and  stood  motionless  on  the  other  side 
-of  the  threshold.  Save  only  from  the  dance  hall  below, 


34         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

there  was  not  a  sound.  The  door  closed  again;  again 
that  snipping  sound  as  it  was  relocked — and  then  the 
round,  white  ray  of  Jimmie  Dale's  flashlight  circled  his 
surroundings. 

There  was  a  sort  of  barbaric  splendour  to  the  place. 
Malay  John  was  something  of  a  sybarite !  It  was  a  single 
room,  whose  floor  was  covered  with  rich  Turkish  rugs, 
whose  walls  were  covered  with  Oriental  hangings,  and 
in  one  corner  was  a  great,  wide  divan,  canopied,  also 
with  Oriental  hangings  at  head  and  foot,  serving  presum 
ably  for  a  bed;  but,  striking  a  somewhat  incongruot^ 
note,  others  of  the  appointments  were  modern  enough — 
the  flat-topped  desk  in  the  centre  of  the  room  with  its 
revolving  chair,  for  instance,  and  a  large,  ponderous  safe 
that  stood  back  against  the  rear  wall. 

Jimmie  Dale  crossed  the  room  for  a  closer  inspection 
of  the  safe,  and,  as  his  flashlight  played  over  the  singl« 
dial,  he  shook  his  head  whimsically.  No,  it  would  be 
hardly  true  to  call  that  modern;  it  was  only  an  ancient 
monstrosity,  a  helpless  thing  at  the  mercy  of  any  cracks- 
man who 

The  flashlight  in  his  hand  went  out.  Like  lightning, 
Jimmie  Dale,  his  tread  silent  on  the  heavy  rugs,  leaped 
back  across  the  room,  and  in  an  instant  slipped  in  behind 
the  end  hangings  of  the  divan  and  stood,  pressed  closely, 
against  the  wall. 

A  key  turned  stealthily  in  the  lock,  the  door  opened 
as  stealthily — then  silence — then  a  flashlight  swept  sud- 
denly around  the  room — darkness  again — and  then  a 
hoarse  whisper: 

"All  clear,  Birdie.     Lock  the  door." 

The  door  closed.  The  flashlight  played  down  the  room 
again — and  upon  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  came  a  twisted  Hsnile, 
as,  his  fingers  edging  the  hanging  sl;ghdy  to  one  s"4e, 
he  peered  out. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCAR  3S 

The  light  ray  moving  before  them,  two  dark  forms 
stole  across  the  room  to  the  safe. 

"There  you  are,  Birdie !"  said  one  of  them.  "Ain't  she 
a  beaut !  Say,  a  kid  could  open  it !  Didn't  I  tell  you  I 
*vas  handing  you  one  on  a  gold  platter !" 

The  light  ray  now  flooded  the  front  of  the  safe,  and 
outlined  the  forms  of  the  two  men.  One  of  them,  hold- 
ing the  flashlight,  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  began  to 
•twirl  the  dial  tentatively;  the  other  leaned  negligently 
Against  the  corner  of  the  safe. 

"I  ain't  so  sure  it's  easy,  Slimmy,"  replied  the  man 
on  his  knees,  after  a  moment.  He  stopped  twirling  the 
dial,  and  looked  up.  "Mabbe  it'll  take  longer  than  we 
figured  on.  Are  you  sure  there  ain't  no  chance  of  Malay 
gettin'  back?  I'd  rather  stack  up  against  every  bull  in 
New  York  than  him." 

The  twisted  smile  on  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  still  lingered. 
So  that  was  Slimmy  Jack  there,  leaning  against  the 
raf  e !  Slimmy  Jack — and  Birdie  Lee !  His  fingers  drew 
Ihe  hangings  a  little  further  apart.  The  room  was  in 
complete  darkness  except  for  the  circle  of  light  around 
the  safe,  and  it  was  as  though  what  was  being  enacted 
before  him  were  some  strange,  realistic  film  thrown  upon 
a  screen — just  two  forms  in  the  white  light,  their  faces 
masked,  against  the  background  of  the  safe,  with  its 
glittering  nickel  dial.  And  now  Slimmy  Jack,  from  his 
negligent  pose,  straightened  sharply  and  leaned  toward 
Birdie  Lee. 

"Say,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Birdie !"  he  exclaimed 
roughly.  "You  didn't  let  'em  get  your  nerve  up  the 
nver,  did  you?  You've  been  acting  kind  of  queer  all 
day.  I  told  you  before,  Malay  wouldn't  be  back  in 
time  to  monkey  with  us.  We  don't  have  to  stand  for 
this — I  told  you  that,  too.  You  don't  think  I'm  a  fool, 
do  you,  to  steer  you  into  a  lay  that's  got  a  come-back  ofl 


86         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

myself  unless  the  thing  was  planted  right?  Why,  damn 
it,  Malay  knows  I  saw  the  coin  put  in  there.  D'ye 
think  I'd  give  him  a  chance  of  suspecting  me!  It's  all 
fixed — you  know  that.  Now,  go  to  it — there's  a  nice 
little  piece  of  money  in  there  that'll  keep  us  going  till 
we  pull  that  Chicago  deal." 

"All  right!"  Birdie  Lee  answered  tersely.  "Keep 
quiet,  then,  and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

He  laid  his  ear  against  the  safe,  listening  for  the 
tumblers'  fall,  as,  holding  the  flashlight  in  his  left  hand, 
its  rays  upon  the  dial,  the  fingers  of  his  right  began  to 
work  swiftly  again  with  the  glistening  knob. 

From  below,  the  confused,  dull  medley  of  sound  from 
the  dance  hall  seemed  only  to  intensify  the  silence  in  the 
room.  Slimmy  Jack  stood  motionless  at  the  side  of  the 
safe,  his  elbow  resting  against  the  old-fashioned,  pro- 
tpuding  upper  hinge.  A  minute,  two,  another,  and  still 
another  dragged  by.  Came  then  a  short  ejaculation 
from  Birdie  Lee. 

Slimmy  Jack  bent  forward  instantly. 

"Got  it?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 

"No — curse  it !"  gritted  Birdie  Lee.  "My  fingers  seem 
to  have  lost  their  touch — I  ain't  had  much  practice  for 
the  last  five  years  up  there  in  Sing  Sing!" 

"Well,  then,  'soup'  it !"  grunted  Slimmy  Jack.  "You 
could  blow  the  roof  off,  and  no  one  would  be  the  wiser 
with  that  racket  downstairs.  We  can't  waste  all  night 
over  it." 

"What  are  you  going  to  'soup'  it  with?"  Birdie  Lee 
flung  back  gruffly.  "We  didn't  bring  nothing.  You 
said " 

"I  know  I  did!"  A  sulkn  menace  had  crept  suddenly 
into  Slimmy  Jack's  voice.  "I  said  you  could  open  an 
old  tin  can  like  that  with  your  hands  tied — and  so  you 
can.  Try  it  again !" 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCAR  37 

Jimmie  Dale's  fingers  stole  inside  his  shirt,  and  into  a 
Docket  of  the  leather  girdle,  and  brought  forth  a  black 
eilk  mask.  He  slipped  it  quickly  over  his  face.  Birdie 
Lee  was  at  work  once  more.  It  was  about  time  to  play 
his  own  hand  in  the  game.  The  Tocsin  had  made  no 
aiistake,  he  was  sure  of  that  now,  and 

Birdie  Lee  spoke  again. 

"It's  no  use,  Slimmy!"  he  muttered.  "I  guess  I  ain't 
any  good  any  more.  I  can't  open  the  damned  thing!" 

"Try  it  again !"  ordered  Slimmy  Jack  shortly. 

"But  it's  no  use,  I  tell  you !"  retorted  Birdie  Lee.  "I 
ain't  got  the  feel  in  my  fingers." 

"You — try — it — again!"  There  was  a  cold,  ominous 
/ing  in  Slimmy  Jack's  voice. 

Birdie  Lee  drew  back  a  little  on  his  knees,  glancing 
quickly  up  at  the  other. 

"What — what  d'ye  mean  by  that,  Slimmy!"  he  ex- 
claimed in  a  startled  way. 

"I'll  show  you  what  I  mean,  and  I'll  show  you  blamed 
quick  if  you  don't  open  that  safe !"  Slimmy  Jack  threat- 
ened hoarsely.  "Blast  you,  you're  stalling  on  me — that's 
what  you're  doing!  I've  seen  you  work  before.  You 
could  open  that  thing  with  your  finger  nails,  if  you 
Wanted  to!  Now,  open  it!" 

"But,  I  can't!"  protested  Birdie  Lee.  "I  wouldn't 
hand  you  anything  like  that,  Slimmy — you  know  that, 
Slimmy.  I " 

"Open  it!  And  open  it — quick!"  Slimmy  Jack's  hand 
was  wrenching  at  his  side  pocket. 

"But,  I  tell  you,  I  can't,  Slimmy!"  cried  Birdie  Lee^ 
almost  piteously.  "It's  queered  me  up  there  in  the  pen. 
I" — he  was  rising  to  his  feet — "Slimmy — for  God's 
sake — what  are  you  doing — you " 

There  was  a  flash,  the  roar  of  the  report,  a  swaying 
form,  a  revolver  clattering  to  the  floor — and  with  a 


S8 

crash  Slimmy  Jack  pitched  forward  and  lay  motionless. 

Then  silence. 

It  had  come  without  warning,  in  the  winking  of  an  eye, 
and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  Jimmie  Dale  that  he 
could  not  grasp  the  full  significance  of  what  had  hap- 
pened— that  Slimmy  Jack,  his  sleeve  catching  on  the 
hinge  of  the  safe  as  he  had  finally  succeeded  in  jerking 
his  revolver  from  his  pocket,  had,  a  grim,  ironical  trick 
of  fate,  accidentally  shot  hmself!  Mechanically,  auto- 
matically, Jimmie  Dale's  hands  went  to  his  pockets  and 
produced  his  own  flashlight  and  revolver — but  he  did  not 
move.  His  eyes  now  were  on  Birdie  Lee,  who,  like  a 
man  dazed  and  terror-stricken,  had  lurched  back  against 
the  safe,  the  flashlight  that  dangled  in  his  hand  sweep- 
ing queer,  aimless  patches  of  light  about  the  floor. 

Still  silence — only  the  uproar  from  the  dance  hall  that 
would  have  drowned  out  to  those  below  the  sound  of  the 
revolver  shot.  Then  Birdie  Lee  staggered  forward,  and 
knelt  beside  the  prostrate  form  on  the  floor.  He  stood 
up  again  presently,  swaying  unsteadily  on  his  feet,  turn- 
ing his  head  wildly  about,  now  this  way,  now  that.  And 
then  his  whisper,  broken,  hoarse,  quavered  through  the 
room: 

"He's  dead.    My  God— he's— he's  dead." 

"Drop  that  flashlight !"  Jimmie  Dale's  voice  rang  cold, 
imperative.  "Drop  it!"  And,  sweeping  the  hangings 
aside,  the  ray  of  his  own  light  suddenly  full  upon  Birdie 
Lee.  he  leaped  forward. 

With  a  low,  terrified  cry,  the  other  let  the  flashlight 
fall  as  though  from  nerveless  fingers,  and  shrank  back 
against  the  safe. 

"Now  put  your  hands  above  your  head!"  directed 
Jimmie  Dale  curtly. 

The  man  obeyed. 

,  frightened  eyes  stared  out  at  Jimmie  Dale 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCAR  39 

behind  the  mask  that  covered  Birdie  Lee's  face.  Swiftly, 
deftly,  Jimmie  Dale  felt  over  the  other's  clothing  for 
a  weapon.  There  was  none.  Then,  himself  in  darkness, 
the  blinding  light  in  Birdie  Lee's  face,  he  pulled  off  the 
other's  mask,  and  with  a  grim,  quick  touch  of  his  revol- 
ver muzzle  traced  out  the  white,  pulsing,  triangular 
scar  on  the  man's  forehead. 

"So  you're  up  to  your  old  tricks  again,  are  you, 
Birdie?"  he  inquired  coldly.  "Five  years  up  the  river 
wasn't  enough  for  you — eh?" 

The  man  drew  himself  up  suddenly,  and,  squaring  his 
shoulders,  made  as  though  to  speak — and  then,  with  a 
swift,  hopeless  gesture,  turned  his  back,  and,  leaning 
over  the  top  of  the  safe,  buried  his  head  in  his  arms. 

A  strange  smile  touched  Jimmie  Dale's  lips.  He 
stooped  down,  picked  up  the  revolver  from  the  floor, 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  bent  over  Slimmy  Jack  for  an 
instant  to  assure  himself  that  the  man  was  dead — then 
stepping  back  to  the  safe,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  ex- 
convict's  shoulder. 

"Birdie,"  he  said  quietly,  "could  you  open  this  safe  if 
you  wanted  to?" 

The  man  swung  sharply  around,  the  prison  pallor  of 
his  face  a  pitiful,  deathlike  colour  in  the  flashlight's  rays. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked  thickly. 

"A  friend  perhaps — if  you  can  open  that  safe,"  Jimmie 
Dale  answered. 

A  puzzled  look  crept  into  Birdie's  eyes. 

"W-what  do  you  mean?"  he  stammered. 

"I  mean  that  I  want  the  proof  that  you  are  straight,** 
limmie  Dale  said  softly.  "I've  been  here  in  the  room 
all  the  ;ime.  I  want  to  know  whether  you  were  stalling 
on  Slimmy  Jack,  or  not.  And  I  want  to  know,  if  you 
Hvere  stalling,  how  you  came  to  be  here  with  him." 

"That's  a  queer  spiel,"  said  Birdie  Lee,  in  a  troubled 


40         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

way.  "I  thought  at  first  you  were  a  bull — but  you  don't 
talk  like  one.  Mabbe  you're  playin'  with  me;  but, 
whether  you  are  or  not,  I  guess  it  won't  make  much 
difference  what  I  say.  You  couldn't  help  me  if  yom 
wanted  to  now — with  him  dead  there" — he  jerked  his 
head  toward  the  form  on  the  floor. 

"Tell  me,  anyhow,"  insisted  Jimmie  Dale  quietly. 

Birdie's  hand  lifted  and  swept  across  his  eyes. 

"Well,  all  right,"  he  said,  after  a  moment;  "I'll  teb 
you.  Me  and  Slimmy  used  to  work  together  all  the 
time  in  Chicago  and  out  West  after  I  left  New  York, 
and  until  I  came  back  here  one  day  and  pulled  one  alon« 
and  got  sent  up  for  it.  Well,  to-day,  when  they  let  me 
out  of  Sing  Sing,  Slimmy  had  come  on  from  Chicago 
and  was  waitin'  for  me.  He  had  a  deal  all  fixed  in 
Chicago  that  we  was  to  pull  together,  a  big  one,  and  this 
little  one  here  was  to  keep  us  goin'  until  the  big  one  came 
off.  He  was  with  Malay  John  in  this  room  to-day  when 
a  gambler  from  up  the  State  somewhere  blew  in  with  * 
roll  of  about  three  thousand  dollars,  and  handed  it  over 
to  Malay  to  keep  while  he  knocked  around  town  for  3, 
day  or  two.  Malay  put  the  money  in  this  safe  here,  and 
that's  what  Slimmy  was  after  for  a  starter.  I  told 
Slimmy  I  was  all  through — that  I  was  goin'  straight.  H0 
wouldn't  believe  me.  I  guess  you  don't.  I  guess  ncK 
body  will.  I  got  a  record  that's  mabbe  too  black  to  live 
down,  and — oh,  well,  what's  the  use!  I  meant  to  live 
decent,  but  I  guess  any  chance  I  had  is  gone  now." 
His  voice  choked.  "That's  the  way  I  had  doped  it  out 
up  there  in  the  pen — that  I  was  goin'  straight.  That'* 
all,  isn't  it?  1  told  Slimmy  I  was  through — but  Slimmj' 
held  something  over  me  that  was  good  for  twenty  years 
What  could  I  do  ?  I  said  I'd  come  in  on  this,  figttrin'  thar 
I  could  queer  the  game  by  stallin'.  I — I  tried  it  If 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCAR  41 

you  were  here,  you  saw  me.  I  pretended  that  I  couldn't 
open  the  safe,  and " 

"Can  you  ?"  inquired  Jimmie  Dale  gently. 

"That  thing!"  Birdie  Lee  smiled  mirthlessly.  "Why 
it's  only  a  double  combin " 

"Open  it,  then,"  prompted  Jimmie  Dale. 

Birdie  Lee  stooped  impulsively  to  the  dial  of  the  safe  * 
hesitated,  then  straightened  up  again,  and  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  guess  I'll  take  my  medicine.  I  don't 
know  who  you  are.  I  might  just  as  well  have  opened 
it  for  Slimmy  as  for  you.  It  looks  as  though  you  were 
after  the  same  thing  he  was." 

Jimmie  Dale  smiled. 

"Stand  a  little  away  from  the  safe,  Birdie — there,"  he 
instructed.  And,  as  the  other  obeyed  wonderingly,  Jim- 
mie Dale  knelt  to  the  dial.  "You  see,  I  trust  you  not 
to  move,"  he  said.  The  dial  was  whirling  under  the 
sensitive  fingers,  and,  like  Birdie  before  him,  his  ear  was 
pressed  against  the  face  of  the  safe. 

The  moments  went  by.  Birdie  Lee  was  watching  in 
an  eager,  fascinated,  startled  way.  Came  at  last  a  sharp, 
metallic  click,  as  Jimmie  Dale  flung  the  handle  over—- 
and the  door  swung  wide.  He  shut  it  again  instantly— 
and  locked  it. 

"It's  your  turn,  Birdie,"  he  said  calmly.  "You  see 
that,  as  far  as  I  or  my  intentions  are  concerned,  i* 
doesn't  matter  whether  you  open  it  or  not." 

"Who  are  you?"  There  was  awed  admiration  in 
Birdie's  voice.  "You're  slicker  than  ever  I  was,  even 
in  the  old  days.  For  God's  sake,  who  are  you?" 

"Never  mind,"  said  Jimmie  Dale.  "Open  the  safe,  if 
you  can." 

"I  can  open  it  all  right,"  said  Birdie,  moving  slowly 
forward;  "and  quicker  than  you  did,  because  I  got  the 


42         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

combination  when  I  was  workin*  on  it  with  Slimmy 
watchin'.  Throw  the  light  on  the  knob,  will  you?" 

It  was  barely  an  instant  before  Birdie  Lee  swung 
back  the  door. 

"Now  lock  it  again,"  directed  Jimmie  Dale.  And 
then,  as  the  other  obeyed,  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Birdie 
Lee.  "You're  clear,  Birdie." 

A  tremor  came  to  the  other's  face. 

"Clear?"  repeated  Birdie  unsteadily. 

"Yes — you  get  your  chance.  That's  one  reason  why 
I  came  here  to-night — to  spoil  Slimmy  Jack's  play,  to 
see  that  you  got  your  chance  if  you  really  wanted  it, 
as" — he  added  whimsically — "I  was  informed  you  did. 
Go  ahead,  Birdie — make  your  get-away — you're  free," 

But  Birdie  Lee  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  caught  again.  "It's  no 
good."  He  pointed  to  the  still  form  on  the  floor.  "I 
guess  I  go  up  for  more  than  safe-crackin'  this  time.  I — 
I  guess  it'll  be  the  chair.  When  they  find  him  here — 
dead — shot — they'll  call  it  murder — and  they'll  put  it 
onto  me.  The  police  know  we  have  been  together  for 
years.  They  know  he  came  here  to-day  when  I  got  out. 
We've  been  seen  together  to-day.  We — we  were  seen 
quarrelling  this  afternoon  in  a  saloon  over  on  the  Bow- 
ery. That  was  when  I  was  refusin'  to  start  the  old  play 
again.  They'd  have  what  looked  like  an  open  and  shut 
game  against  me.  I  wouldn't  have  a  hope." 

It  was  a  moment  before  Jimmie  Dale  answered.  What 
Ihe  man  said  was  true — he  would  not  have  a  hope — for 
an  honest  life — after  five  years  in  the  penitentiary.  He 
lifted  his  flashlight  again  and  played  it  over  Birdie  Lee. 
They  showed,  those  years,  in  the  pallor,  the  drawn  lines, 
the  wan  misery  in  the  other's  face. 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  set  firmly  under  his  mask. 
There  was  a  way  to  save  the  man.  It  was  something 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCAR  43 

he  had  never  intended  to  do  again — but  it  was  worth  the 
price — to  save  this  man.  It  would  be  like  a  bombshell 
exploded  in  the  underworld;  it  would  arouse  the  police 
to  infuriated  activity;  it  would  stir  New  York  to  its 
depths — but,  after  all,  it  could  not  touch  Smarlinghue. 
It  would  only  instil  the  belief  that  somehow  Larry  the 
Bat  had  escaped  from  the  tenement  fire;  it  would  only 
mean  a  hunt  for  Larry  the  Bat  day  and  night — but  Larry 
the  Bat  no  longer  existed — and  it  would  save  this  man. 

He  clamped  the  flashlight  between  his  knees,  leaving 
his  hands  free,  and  from  the  leather  girdle  drew  the 
old-time  metal  case,  thin,  like  a  cigarette  case,  and  from 
the  case,  with  a  pair  of  little  tweezers  that  precluded  the 
possibility  of  telltale  finger  prints,  lifted  out  a  small, 
diamond-shaped,  gray-coloured  paper  seal,  adhesive  on 
one  side,  which  he  moistened  now  with  his  tongue — and, 
stooping  quickly,  attached  it  to  the  dead  man's  sleeve. 

There  was  a  sharp,  startled  cry  from  Birdie  Lee. 

"The  Gray  Seal!  You're — you're  Larry  the  Bat  I 
They  passed  the  word  around  in  Sing  Sing  that  you  were 
dead,  and " 

"And  it  will  be  the  Gray  Seal  who  is  wanted  for  this — • 
not  you,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  quietly.  Then,  almost 
sharply:  "Now  make  your  get-away,  Birdie.  Hurry! 
You  and  I  part  here.  And  the  greater  distance  you  put 
between  yourself  and  this  place  to-night  the  better." 

But  the  man  seemed  as  though  robbed  of  the  power 
of  movement — and  then  his  lips  quivered,  and  his  eyes 
filled. 

"But  you,"  he  faltered,  "you — you're  doing  this  foi 
me,  and  I — I " 

Jimmie  Dale  caught  the  other's  arm  in  a  kindly  grip. 

"Good-night,  Birdie,"  he  said  significantly.  "I'm  the 
last  man  now  that  you  could  afford  to  be  seen  with. 
You  understand  that.  And  I  guess  you  can  understand 


44         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

that  I've  reasons  for  not  wanting  to  be  seen  myself. 
You've  got  your  chance;  give  me  mine  to  get  away- 
alone."  He  pushed  the  man  abruptly  toward  the  door. 

Still  Birdie  Lee  hesitated ;  then  catching  Jimmie  Dale's 
hand,  he  wrung  it  hard — and,  with  a  half  choked  sob, 
turned  and  made  his  way  from  the  room. 

For  an  instant  Jimmie  Dale  stood  looking  after  the 
other  through  the  darkness,  listening  as  the  stealthy  steps 
descended  the  stairs — then  suddenly  he  knelt  again  beside 
the  dead  man  on  the  floor. 

"You  were  clever,  Slimmy!"  he  murmured.  "Smarl- 
inghue  wouldn't  have  had  a  chance  of  getting  out  from 
under  this  break — if  your  plans  had  worked  out!  And 
I  didn't  know  you,  of  course,  because  you  were  a  Chicago 
crook." 

He  took  off  the  dead  man's  mask,  and  played  his 
flashlight  for  a  moment  over  the  cold,  set  features. 

A  queer  smile  twisted  Jimmie  Dale's  lips. 

It  was  "Qancy  of  Headquarters" ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT 

THE  "murder"  of  Slimmy  Jack  had  evidently  been 
discovered  too  late  for  the  make-up  of  the  early 
morning  papers;  but  from  the  noon  editions  onward  it 
had  been  flung  across  the  front  pages  in  glaring 
type — even  the  most  stately  journals,  for  the  nonce 
aroused  out  of  their  dignified  calm,  indulging  in 
"display"  headlines  that,  quite  apart  from  the  mere  text, 
could  not  but  have  startled  their  equally  stately  and  digni- 
fied readers.  The  Gray  Seal,  the  leech  that  fed  upon 
society,  the  murderer,  the  thief,  the  menace  to  the  lives 
and  property  of  law-abiding  citizens,  the  scourge  that  for 
years  New  York  had  combated  in  the  no  more  effective 
fashion  than  that  of  gnashing  its  teeth  in  impotent  fury, 
had  suddenly  reappeared  with  a  fresh  murder  to  his 
credit.  And  New  York  had  thought  him  dead ! 

Jimmie  Dale,  leaning  back  on  the  seat  of  his  limousine 
as  the  car,  now  halting  at  a  corner,  now  racing  with  a 
hundred  others  to  snatch  a  block  or  two  of  distance 
before  the  next  monarchial  traffic  officer  of  Fifth  Ave- 
nue should  hold  it  up  again  a  victim  to  the  evening  rush, 
turned  from  first  one  to  another  of  the  pile  of  papers  be- 
side him.  His  strong,  clean-shaven  face  was  grave ;  and 
there  was  a  sober  light  in  the  dark,  steady  eyes.  In  the 
St.  James  Club,  which  he  had  just  left,  perhaps  the  most 
sedate,  certainly  the  most  exclusive  club  in  New  York, 
it  had  been  the  one  topic  of  conversation.  Elderly  gentle- 

45 


46         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

men,  not  usually  given  to  excitability,  had  joined  with 
the  younger  members  in  a  hectic  denunciation  of  the 
police  as  criminally  inefficient,  and  had  made  dire  and 
absurdly  vain  threats  as  to  what  they,  electing  them- 
selves for  the  moment  a  supreme  court  of  last  resort, 
proposed  to  do  under  the  circumstances.  The  irony  was 
exquisite,  if  they  had  but  known!  Also  there  was  the 
element  of  humour,  only  there  was  a  grim  tinge  to  the 
humour  that  robbed  it  of  its  mirth — some  day  they 
might  know! 

He  glanced  out  of  the  window,  as  the  car  was  held 
up  again.  Everybody  in  the  crowd,  that  waited  on  the 
corners  for  the  stream  of  traffic  to  pass,  seemed  to  have 
their  eyes  glued  to  their  newspapers — even  Benson,  his 
chauffeur,  during  the  moment  of  inaction,  was  surrepti- 
tiously reading  a  paper  which  he  had  flattened  out  on 
the  seat  beside  him ! 

Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  reverted  to  the  newspaper  in  his 
hand,  one  of  the  most  conservative.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  tenor  of  the  leading  article  on  the  editorial 
page: 

"It  is  not  so  much  that  a  thug  and  criminal  known 
as  Slimmy  Jack  should  have  been  murdered  by  another 
wretch  of  his  own  breed;  indeed,  that  such  should  prey 
upon  one  another  is  far  from  being  a  matter  of  regret, 
for  we  might  hope  in  time  for  the  extermination  of  them 
all  by  the  simple  process  of  mutual  attrition  and  at 
correspondingly  little  expense  to  ourselves — but  that 
this  so-called  Gray  Seal  should  still  prove  to  be  alive 
and  at  large  is  a  matter  that  concerns  every  citizen 
personally.  He  does  not  confine  his  attentions  to  the 
Slimmy  Jacks.  The  criminal  records  of  the  past  few 
years  reek  with  his  acts,  that  run  the  gamut  of  every 
crime  in  the  decalogue,  crimes  for  the  most  part  actuated 
apparently  by  no  other  motive  than  a  monstrously  in- 


THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT  4-7 

nate  thirst  for  notoriety — and  the  victims,  for  the  most 
part,  too,  have  been  the  innocent  and  the  defenceless. 
What  is  the  end  of  this  to  be?  If  the  police  cannot 
cope  with  this  blood-mad  ruffian,  is  New  York  to  sit 
idly  by  and  submit  to  another  reign  of  terror  instituted 
and  carried  on  under  the  nose  of  authority  by  this  in- 
human jackal?  If  so,  we  are  committing  a  crime  against 
ourselves,  we  are  insulting  our  intelligence,  and " 

The  man  who  had  written  that  was  a  personal  friend ! 
Jimmie  Dale  threw  the  paper  down,  and  picked  up  an- 
other, and  after  that  another.  They  were  pretty  well  all 
alike.  They  rehearsed  the  discovery  of  Larry  the  Bat 
as  the  Gray  Seal ;  they  rehearsed  the  story  of  the  fire  in 
the  tenement  of  six  months  ago  in  which  it  was  supposed 
that  Larry  the  Bat  had  perished — they  differed  only  in 
the  virulence,  a  mere  choice  of  words,  with  which  they 
now  demanded  that  this  Larry  the  Bat,  alias  the  Gray 
Seal,  should  be  dug  out  like  a  rat  from  his  hole,  and  the 
city  be  freed  once  and  for  all,  and  with  no  loophole  for 
misadventure  this  time,  of  this  "ogre  of  hell,"  as  one 
paper  put  it,  that  was  gorging  itself  upon  New  York. 

The  furrows  gathered  on  Jimmie  Dale's  forehead,  as 
he  folded  up  the  papers,  and  stared  at  his  chauffeur's 
back  through  the  plate-glass  front  of  the  car.  He  had 
known  that  the  reappearance  of  the  Gray  Seal  would 
arouse  the  community  to  a  wild  pitch  of  excitement,  but 
he  had  far  underestimated  the  effect.  He  could  gauge 
it  better  now,  though — he  had  only  to  look  out  of  the 
windows  at  the  passers-by.  And  this  was  only  the  re- 
spectable element  of  the  city  whose  head  and  front  was 
the  police,  and  dangerous  enough  for  all  the  bitter  taunts, 
gibes  and  recriminations  with  which  the  police  was 
maligned !  There  was  still  the  far  more  dangerous  ele- 
ment of  the  underworld !  He  had  not  been  in  that  quar» 


48         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

ter  since  he  had  left  Malay  John's  the  night  before,  but 
he  could  picture  it  now  well  enough.  God  help  him  if 
he  ever  fell  into  those  hands !  In  dens  and  dives,  in  the 
dark  corners  of  that  sordid  world,  they  would  be  whis- 
pering blasphemous  vows  of  vengeance  against  him  one 
to  another — and,  relative  to  the  hate  and  fear  that  welded 
them  into  a  single  unit,  the  police  sank  into  insignificance. 
More  than  one  of  their  elite  had  gone  to  the  electric, 
chair  through  the  instrumentality  of  the  Gray  Seal ;  more 
than  one  was  serving  at  that  moment  a  long  term  behind 
penitentiary  walls.  Whose  turn  was  it  to  be  next  ?  They 
needed  no  editorial  prod  in  the  underworld  to  run  Larry 
the  Bat  to  earth — there  was  the  deeper  spur  of  self- 
preservation!  They  knew  who  the  Gray  Seal  was  now, 
and  the  first  blow  that  he  had  aimed  upon  his  reappear- 
ance  had  apparently  been  at  one  of  themselves.  Their 
search  for  Larry  the  Bat  would  not  be  an  indifferent  one ! 

It  was  true  that  Larry  the  Bat  no  longer  existed,  that 
in  that  respect  he  was  encompassed  by  a  certain  security 
he  had  not  enjoyed  before,  but  how  long  would  that  last? 
One  slip,  one  moment  off  his  guard,  would  wreck  all  that 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Between  the  police  and  the 
underworld  New  York  would  be  scoured  from  end  to  end 
for  Larry  the  Bat;  and,  failing  to  find  trace  or  sign  of 
their  quarry,  how  long  would  it  be  before  they  would  put 
more  faith  in  the  evidence  of  the  tenement  fire  than  in 
the  evidence  of  the  Magpie,  upon  whose  testimony  alone 
Larry  the  Bat  had  been  accepted  as  the  Gray  Seal,  and 
believe  again  that  Larry  the  Bat  was  dead,  and  that 
therefore  they  had  not  yet  solved  the  identity  of  the 
Gray  Seal! 

He  had  never  intended  that  the  Gray  Seal  should  ever 
have  been  heard  of  again.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
philosophically.  One's  intentions  in  this  world  did  not 
always  count  for  much !  His  hand  had  been  forced,  and 


THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT  49 

he  had  paid  the  price  to  save  Birdie  Lee.  He  could  not  re- 
gret that !  Whatever  the  consequences,  the  price  had  not 
been  too  high,  and  yet — his  eyes  roved  again  over  the 
crowded  thoroughfare.  A  car  edged  by  his  own.  Two 
men  were  in  the  tonneau.  One  held  a  newspaper  which 
he  thumped  with  a  menacing  fist  as  he  talked.  The  door 
windows  of  Jimmie  Dale's  limousine  were  down,  and 
he  caught  two  bitter,  angry  words: 

".  .  .  Cray  Seal " 

The  sober  expression  on  Jimmie  Dale's  face  deepened. 
Only  a  fool  would  attempt  to  minimise  or  underestimate 
the  meaning  of  what  he  saw  around  him.  A  hint,  for 
instance,  that  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  millionaire  clubman,  rid- 
ing here  in  his  limousine,  was  the  Gray  Seal,  and  this 
great,  teeming,  though  orderly,  Fifth  Avenue  would  be 
transformed  like  magic  into  a  seething,  screaming  whirl 
of  madmen,  and — he  did  not  care  to  follow  that  trend 
of  thought.  He  was  quite  well  aware  what  would  hap- 
pen! 

The  car,  close  up  against  the  curb,  stopped  once  more 
in  a  traffic  blockade.  Smarlinghue  was  the  most  vital 
factor  to  be  considered  now,  for — he  caught  his  breath 
quickly.  Through  the  open  window  of  the  limousine  a 
White  envelope  fluttered  and  fell  at  his  feet.  The  car 
Was  moving  forward  again.  For  the  fraction  of  a  second 
Jimmie  Dale  did  not  move,  save  to  straighten  rigidly  as 
though  from  some  sharply  administered  galvanic  shock; 
and  then,  with  a  low  cry — "the  Tocsin !" — he  was  at  the 
door,  his  head  thrust  out  through  the  window,  his  fingers 
mechanically  wrenching  at  the  door  handle.  A  mass  of 
people  were  surging  across  the  street  toward  the  oppo- 
site corner.  Eagerly  his  eyes  swept  over  them;  he 
pushed  the  door  open  a  little  as  though  to  step  out — and 
shut  it  again  quickly,  as,  with  a  yell  of  warning,  another 


SO         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

car,  jockeying  for  position  as  his  own  moved  out  into  the 
stream  of  traffic,  swept  by  from  behind. 

It  had  been  quite  useless — he  knew  that,  he  had  known 
it  subconsciously  even  at  the  moment  when  he  had 
sprung  to  his  feet.  Apart  entirely  from  the  crowd,  shfc 
would  undoubtedly  be  in  some  clever  disguise,  and  he 
could  not  have  recognised  her  in  any  event. 

He  stooped,  picked  up  the  envelope,  and  sat  down 
again  quietly,  his  eyes  travelling  swiftly  in  the  direction 
of  his  chauffeur.  Benson's  back  was  still  imperturbably 
turned  toward  him.  In  the  roar  of  dozens  of  motors  all 
starting  forward  at  once,  Benson  evidently  had  not  heard 
the  yell  of  warning,  or,  if  he  had,  had  been  too  much 
occupied  with  his  own  immediate  duties  to  pay  any  at- 
tention to  it. 

Jimmie  Dale  tore  the  envelope  open ;  and,  in  a  sort  of 
grim,  feverish  haste,  unfolded  the  sheets  which  it  had 
contained. 

"Dear  Philanthropic  Crook — since  you  will  be  called 
that,"  he  read.  A  quick,  eager  flush  came  to  his  cheeks. 
She  knew  now,  since  she  had  shown  last  night  that  she 
knew  him  as  Smarlinghue,  that,  despite  all  her  own 
brave,  resolute  protests,  he  was  determined  to  fight  this 
thing  out  to  the  end — separately,  if  she  would  not  let 
him  join  forces  with  her — but,  in  any  case,  to  the  end. 
It  was  the  old  name  again — Dear  Philanthropic  Crook! 
Did  it  mean  that  she  had  surrendered,  then,  at  last,  that 
Jhe  had  finally  accepted  the  situation,  and  that  he  was  to 
enter  this  shadowland  of  hers  beside  her!  The  flush  died 
away.  It  was  only  his  own  wish  that  had  been  father 
to  the  thought.  This  was  another  "call  to  arms"  of  quite 
a  different  nature,  and  born,  not  out  of  her  own  peril, 
but  born,  as  in  the  old  days  again,  out  of  the  maze  of 
her  strange  environment.  "You  have  set  New  York 
ablaze,  you  have  made  me  far  more  afraid  for  you  than 


THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT  51 

I  am  for  myself;  but  I  cannot  see  where  there  is  any 
danger  here,  or  else  I  would  not  have  written  this. 

You "  He  was  reading  impetuously  now,  his  brain, 

alert  and  keen,  sorting  and  sifting  out,  as  it  were,  the 
salient,  vital  points.  ".  .  .  old  Colonel  Mil  ford  and  his 
wife  ...  Louisiana  .  .  .  letter  .  .  .  family  heirloom  .  .  . 
French  descent  .  .  .  old  setting,  three  large  diamonds 
pendant  from  necklet  of  smaller  ones  .  .  .  ten  to  twelve 
thousand  dollars  .  .  .  steel  bond  box  .  .  .  lower  right- 
hand  drawer  of  desk  .  .  .  plan  of  second  floor  .  .  , 
West  88th  Street  .  .  ." 

He  turned  the  page,  studied  for  a  moment  the  carefully 
drawn  plan  that  covered  the  next  sheet,  then  turned  to 
the  third  and  last  page — and  suddenly  his  face  hardened. 
He  had  been  called  a  jackal  by  the  papers — but  here  were 
two  who  bore  a  clearer  title  to  the  name !  He  knew  them 
both — Jake  Kisnieff,  better  known  as  Old  Attic  in  the 
underworld,  as  crooked  as  his  own  bent  and  twisted 
form,  a  miserly,  cunning  "fence,"  crafty  enough,  if 
report  were  true,  to  have  garnered  a  huge,  ill-gotten 
harvest  under  the  nose  of  the  police ;  and  the  other,  one 
self-styled  Henry  Thorold,  alias  whatever  occasion  might 
require,  smooth,  polished,  educated,  the  most  dangerous 
of  all  types  of  crook,  was  the  brains  of  a  certain  clique 
whose  versatile  operations  were  restricted  only  between 
the  limits  of  porch-climbing  and  the  callous  removal,  via 
the  murder  route,  of  any  one  when  deemed  expedient 
for  either  personal  or  financial  reasons! 

Jimmie  Dale  read  on  to  the  end  of  the  page.  His  jaws 
were  clamped  together  now,  the  square,  determined  chin 
out-thrust ;  and  while  one  hand  held  the  letter,  the  other 
curled  into  a  clenched  fist.  It  was  dirty  work — vile,  mis- 
erable work — a  coward's  work!  And  then  Jimmie  Dale 
smiled  grimly,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  glaring  headline 
of  the  paper  on  the  top  of  the  pile  beside  him.  Perhaps 


52         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  morning  papers  would  carry  other  headlines  that 
would  be  still  more  startling ! 

He  began  to  study  the  several  sheets  again,  critically, 
carefully  this  time.  There  should  be  no  danger  here,  she 
said.  He  knew  what  she  meant — that  she  counted  on 
his  being  able  to  nip  the  whole  scheme  in  the  bud.  He 
shook  his  head  thoughtfully.  That  might  be  true;  he 
might  be  able  to  do  that,  probably  would,  for  it  was  still 
very  early;  but  if  not — what  then?  He  glanced  out  of 
the  window — they  were  just  turning  into  Riverside  Drive, 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  wanted  but  a  few  minutes  of 
seven — progress  up  the  Avenue  had  been  unusually  slow, 
He  tore  the  letter  into  small  fragments,  and  reaching 
out  through  the  window,  let  the  pieces  flutter  away  in 
the  wind.  It  was  none  too  early  at  that,  and  it  waa 
unfortunate  that  he  must  first  of  all  go  home — there  werd 
certain  things  there  indispensable  to  the  night's  work. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  was  fortunate  that  he  did  not 
have  to  lose  even  more  time  by  being  obliged  instead 
to  go  to  the  new  Sanctuary  for  what  he  needed,  for- 
tunate that  he  had  been  "Jimmie  Dale"  last  night  when  he 
had  left  Malay  John's,  and  that  he  had  gone  directly 
home  from  there. 

The  car  stopped.  Benson  sprang  from  his  seat,  and 
opened  the  door. 

"Don't  put  up  the  car  yet,  Benson ;  I  am  going  a  little 
further  uptown,"  said  Jimmie  Dale,  with  a  pleasant  nod 
— and  ran  up  the  steps  of  his  house. 

Jason,  his  butler,  opened  the  door  for  him. 

"I  shall  not  be  dining  at  home  to-night,  Jason." 
Jimmie  Dale  handed  over  his  hat — not  a  suitable  one 
for  the  evening's  special  requirements. 

The  old  man's  face  wrinkled  up  in  disappointment. 

"That's  too  bad,  sir,  Master  Jim."  Jason  took  liber- 
ties; but  they  were  the  genuine  heart  liberties  of  a  life- 


THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT  53 

time's  service — and  why  not,  since,  as  he  was  fond  of 
saying,  he  had  dandled  his  Master  Jim  as  a  baby  on  his 
knee!  "There  was  to  be  just  what  you  are  especially 
fond  of  to-night,  Master  Jim ;  the  cook  made  a  particular 
point  of " 

"Yes ;  I  know."  Jimmie  Dale's  hand  squeezed  the  old 
man's  shoulder  in  friendly  fashion.  It  was  not  the  cook, 
hut  Jason,  who  would  have  originated  the  menu  with  the 
painstaking  care  and  thoughtfulness  of  one  dealing  with 
a  life-and-death  matter.  "But  it  can't  be  helped.  I 
didn't  know  until  just  a  little  while  ago,  or  I  would  have 
telephoned.  I  am  going  right  out  again." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  Jason  bowed.  "Your  clothes,  Mas- 
ter Jim,  are " 

"I  shan't  dress,  Jason,"  said  Jimmie  Dale — and,  cross- 
ing the  reception  hall,  with  its  rich,  oriental  rugs,  he  ran 
up  the  wide  staircase,  opened  the  door  of  his  "den," 
locked  it  behind  him,  and,  switching  on  the  lights,  began 
to  strip  off  his  coat  and  vest,  as  he  hurried  toward  the 
further  end  of  the  great,  spacious,  luxuriously  appointed 
room  that  ran  the  entire  depth  of  the  house. 

He  threw  coat  and  vest  on  a  nearby  chair ;  and,  sweep- 
ing the  portieres  away  from  in  front  of  a  little  alcove, 
knelt  down  before  the  barrel-shaped  safe  with  its  multi- 
tudinous glistening  knobs,  that,  in  the  days  gone  by 
when  he  had  been  with  his  father  in  the  business  of 
manufacturing  safes,  the  business  that  had  amassed  the 
fortune  he  had  inherited,  he  had  designed  himself.  His 
fingers  flew  over  the  dials.  He  swung  the  outer  and  th« 
inner  doors  open,  reached  inside,  took  out  the  leather 
girdle  with  its  burglar  kit,  and  fastened  it  around  his 
waist.  Then,  slipping  an  automatic  and  a  flashlight  into 
his  pocket,  he  closed  the  safe,  drew  the  portieres  together, 
and  put  on  his  coat  and  vest  again. 

An  instant  later  he  was  downstairs,  and,  selecting  a 


54         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

soft  slouch  hat — Jason  for  the  moment  not  being  in  evi- 
dence— went  down  the  steps  to  his  waiting  limousine. 

"The  Marleton,  Benson,"  he  directed,  as  he  stepped 
into  the  car.  "And  hurry,  please." 

The  car  started  forward.  It  was  not  far  to  88th 
Street,  but  the  car  would  save  time — and  time  was  count- 
ing now,  every  minute  of  it  priceless,  if,  as  the  Tocsin 
had  intimated,  he  was  to  forestall  the  game  that  was  in 
hand.  The  Marleton  was  for  Benson's  benefit — but  the 
Marleton,  unless  he  had  miscalculated  the  numbers,  was 
barely  more  than  a  block  away  from  the  house  he  sought. 

And  then,  besides,  there  was  another  reason  for  hastq 
— Colonel  Milford  and  his  wife  would  probably  be  at 
dinner  now,  and  that  left  the  upstairs  part  of  the  house 
at  his  disposal,  since,  apart  from  the  elderly  couple,  the 
household  consisted,  according  to  the  Tocsin,  of  only  a 
single  maid.  He  went  over  in  his  mind  again  the  plan 
the  Tocsin  had  drawn.  Yes,  she  was  quite  right,  thers 
should  be  no  danger,  the  whole  matter  as  far  as  he  was 
concerned  was  almost  childishly  simple  and  easy — if  hq 
were  only  in  time !  He  shook  his  head  a  little  impatiently 
at  that;  and,  as  he  saw  that  they  were  approaching  his 
destination,  consulted  his  watch.  It  was  exactly  twenty 
minutes  after  seven. 

The  car  rolled  up  to  the  curb  in  front  of  the  fashion* 
able  family  hotel.  Jimmie  Dale  alighted. 

"I  shall  not  need  you  any  more  to-night,  Benson,"  he 
said. 

He  walked  quietly  into  the  hotel,  through  the  lobby, 
down  a  corridor,  and  out  of  the  entrance  that  gave  on  the 
cross  street — then  his  pace  quickened.  He  traversed  the 
block,  crossed  the  road,  turned  the  corner,  and  a  minute 
later  was  approaching  the  house  she  had  designated.  It 
was  one  of  a  row.  His  pace  slowed  to  a  nonchalant 
stroll  again.  It  was  still  quite  light,  and  he  was  by  no 


THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT  55 

means  the  only  pedestrian  on  the  street;  a  moment's 
preliminary,  even  if  cursory,  examination  of  the  exterior 
would  not  be  amiss !  Counting  the  numbers  ahead  of 
him,  he  had  already  located  the  house.  He  frowned  a 
little.  A  light  burned  in  the  upstairs  front  room.  There 
Was  a  light  in  the  lower  hallway  as  well,  but  that  was 
to  be  expected.  Why  the  one  upstairs  ?  Had  the  Colonel 
and  Mrs.  Milford  already  finished  their  dinner? 

Jimmie  Dale  reached  the  house — and  casually,  with- 
out hesitation,  mounted  the  steps — and  quite  as  casually, 
making  a  pretence  of  ringing  the  electric  bell,  opened 
the  unlocked  outer  door,  stepped  into  the  vestibule,  and, 
without  a  sound  now,  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

He  tried  the  inner  door  tentatively.  It  was  locked,  of 
course — but  it  was  locked  only  for  an  instant.  From 
the  girdle  under  his  vest  came  a  little  steel  instrument; 
there  was  a  faint,  almost  inaudible,  protesting  snip  from 
the  interior  of  the  lock ;  and,  his  fingers  turning  the  knob 
With  a  steady,  silent  pressure,  he  opened  the  door  slightly. 

Crouched  there,  he  listened.  And  then,  a  smile  of  re- 
lief flickering  on  his  lips,  he  pushed  the  door  open,  and 
slipped  into  the  hallway.  The  explanation  of  the  light 
Upstairs  was  that  it  had  probably  been  left  burning  in- 
advertently. They  were  still  at  dinner,  for  he  could 
l\ear  voices  from  the  dining  room  at  the  rear  of  the  hall. 

As  silent  as  a  shadow  now,  Jimmie  Dale,  closing  the 
Inside  door,  moved  across  the  hall,  and  went  up  the  stairs. 
On  the  landing  he  paused;  and  then  advanced  cautiously. 
The  light  streamed  out  from  the  open  door  of  the  front 
loom,  and  there  was  always  the  possibility  that — no,  a 
glance  from  where  he  stood  close  against  the  wall  at 
the  edge  of  the  door  jamb,  showed  him  that  the  room 
was  unoccupied. 

He  entered  the  room  quickly,  crossed  quickly  to  a 
quaint  old  escritoire  against  the  opposite  wall,  and 


66    'ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

stooped  beside  it.  The  lower  right-hand  drawer,  she  had 
said.  The  little  steel  instrument  with  which  he  had 
opened  the  vestibule  door  was  still  in  his  hand,  but  he 
did  not  use  it  now !  Instead,  with  a  low,  dismayed  ejacu- 
lation, as  his  fingers  ran  along  the  drawer  edge,  he 
dropped  on  his  knees  for  a  closer  examination — and  his 
lips  closed  tightly  together. 

He  was  too  late!  The  first  finger  touch  had  told  him 
that,  and  now  his  eyes  corroborated  it.  The  drawer  had 
been  forced  by  a  jimmy  of  some  sort,  judging  from  the 
indentations  in  the  wood.  The  lock  was  broken,  and  he 
pulled  the  drawer  open.  Inside  lay  the  steel  bond-box, 
its  lid  bent  back,  and  wrenched  and  twisted  out  of 
shape.  The  box  was  empty. 

Without  disturbing  the  box,  Jimmie  Dale  mechanically 
closed  the  drawer  again  and  stood  up,  looking  around 
him.  In  a  subconscious  way,  when  he  had  entered  the 
room,  he  had  been  cognisant  of  a  certain  strangeness  in 
its  appointments,  but  then  his  mind  had  been  centred 
only  on  the  work  in  hand;  now  there  seemed  a  sort  of 
pitiful  congruity  in  the  surroundings  themselves  and  in 
the  old  heirloom  that  had  been  stolen.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  room  spoke  to  him  of  past  glories.  The 
furniture  was  out-of-date,  and,  too,  a  little  in  disrepair. 
It  seemed  as  though  there  clung  about  it  the  pride  and 
station  of  other  days,  a  station  that  it  was  finding  it 
hard  to  maintain  in  these.  And  he  thought  he  under- 
stood. It  was  a  fine  old  family,  that  of  the  Milfords 
of  Louisiana,  a  very  proud  old  family  in  the  way  that 
it  was  fine  to  be  proud — proud  of  its  name,  proud  thav* 
its  sons  were  gentlemen,  proud  of  its  loyalty  to  its  own 
traditions  and  standards,  a  pride  that  neither  condition 
nor  adversity  could  mar.  And  now  the  diamond  pendant 
was  gonel  He  could  well  understand  how  they  had 
clung  to  that,  and • 


THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT  57 

He  started  suddenly.  Was  he  a  fool,  that  he  had 
wasted  even  a  moment  in  giving  play  to  his  thoughts! 
Voices  were  reaching  him  now  from  below,  footsteps 
were  sounding  from  the  lower  hall,  there  was  a  creak 
upon  the  stairs.  They  were  coming! 

He  had  hardly  any  need  for  the  quick,  searching 
glance  he  flung  around  him — the  plan  that  the  Tocsin 
had  drawn  was  mapped  out  vividly  in  his  mind.  He 
stepped  backward  softly  through  half-opened  folding 
doors  into  the  room  in  the  rear.  From  this  room  a 
door,  he  knew,  opened  into  the  hallway.  His  escape, 
after  all,  need  give  him  little  concern.  He  had  only  to 
step  out  into  the  hall  after  they  passed,  and  make  his  way 
downstairs.  A  woman's  voice  from  the  stairway  came 
to  him: 

"My  dear,  you  must  have  left  the  light  burning." 

"Unless  it  was  you,"  a  man's  voice  answered  in  good- 
humoured  banter.  "You  were  the  last  one  in  the  room." 

"But  I  am  sure  I  didn't !"  the  feminine  tones  asserted 
positively. 

The  steps  passed  along  the  hall,  and  from  behind  the 
folding  doors  Jimmie  Dale  saw  an  elderly  couple  enter 
the  front  room.  Both  were  in  evening  dress — and  some- 
how, suddenly,  at  sight  of  them  Jimmie  Dale  swallowed 
hard.  The  old  gentleman,  kindly,  blue-eyed,  white- 
haired,  was  very  erect,  very  straight  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  must  have  been  close  to  seventy  years  of  age, 
and  with  the  sweet-faced,  old-fashioned  little  lady,  with 
the  gray  hair,  who  stood  beside  him,  they  made  a  stately 
pair — for  all  that  their  clothes,  past  glories  like  the  furni- 
ture, were  grown  a  little  shabby,  a  little  threadbare.  But 
with  what  a  courtly  air  they  wore  them!  And  with 
what  a  courtly  air  now  he  led  her  to  a  chair,  and  bent 
over  her,  and  lifted  up  her  face,  and  held  it  tenderly 
between  both  his  hands! 


58         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"How  well  you  look  to-night  in  your  dress,"  he  said, 
and  his  blue  eyes  shone.  "I  am  very  proud  of  you." 

She  stroked  the  hand  against  her  cheek. 

"Do  you  remember  the  first  time  I  ever  wore  it?" 
She  was  smiling  up  at  him. 

"Oh,  yes !"  he  nodded  his  head  slowly.  "It  is  strange, 
isn't  it?  That  was  a  long  time  ago  when  our  friends 
were  married  back  there  in  the  old  State,  and  to-night 
again,  way  up  here  in  New  York,  they  have  not  forgotten 
us  on  this  their  anniversary." 

Silence  fell  for  a  moment  between  them. 

Then  he  spoke  again,  a  little  sadly : 

"Would  you  wish  those  days  back  again,  if  you  could?" 

She  hesitated  thoughtfully. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said  at  last.  "Sometimes  I  think 
so.  We  had  John  then." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  turned  away  his  head. 

Her  hand,  as  Jimmie  Dale  watched,  seemed  to  tighten 
over  her  husband's ;  and  now,  though  her  lips  quivered, 
there  came  a  little  smile. 

"But  we  have  his  memory  now,  dear,"  she  whispered. 

Agitated,  the  old  gentleman  moved  abruptly  away 
from  the  chair,  and  Jimmie  Dale  could  see  that  the  blue 
eyes  were  moist. 

"That  is  true — we  have  his  memory."  The  old  colo- 
nel's voice  trembled.  And  then  his  shoulders  squared 
like  a  soldier  on  parade.  "Tut,  tut!"  he  chided.  "Why, 
we  are  to  be  gay  to-night!  And  it  is  almost  time 
for  us  to  be  going.  We,  too,  shall  celebrate.  You  shall 
wear  the  pendant,  just  as  you  did  that  other  night." 

"Oh,  colonel!"  There  was  mingled  delight  and  hesi- 
tation in  her  ejaculation.  "Do  you  really  think  I  ought 
to — that  it  wouldn't  be  out  of  keeping  with  our  present 
circumstances  ?" 

"Of  course,  I  think  you  ought  to !"  he  declared.    "And 


THE  DIAMOND  PENDANT  59 

see" — he  started  across  the  room — "I  will  get  it  for  you, 
and  fasten  it  around  your  throat  myself." 

He  reached  the  escritoire,  opened  a  little  drawer  at 
the  top,  took  out  a  key,  stooped  to  the  lower  drawer, 
inserted  the  key,  turned  it  once  or  twice  in  a  puzzled  way, 
then  tried  the  drawer,  pulled  it  open — and  with  a  sharp, 
sudden  cry,  reached  inside  for  the  steel  bond-box. 

The  little  old  lady  rose  hurriedly,  in  a  startled  way, 
from  her  chair. 

"What  is  it  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?"  she  cried  anxiously. 

The  box  clattered  from  the  colonel's  hands  to  the  floor. 

"It  is  gone!"  he  said  hoarsely.    "It  has  been  stolen!" 

"Gone!"  She  ran  wildly  forward.  "Stolen!  No, 
no — it  cannot  be  gone!" 

They  stared  for  a  moment  into  each  other's  faces,  and 
from  each  other's  faces  stared  at  the  rifled  box  upon 
the  floor — and  then  a  look  of  wan  misery  crept  gray 
upon  the  little  old  lady,  and  she  swayed  backward. 

With  a  cry,  that  to  Jimmie  Dale  seemed  one  of  more 
poignant  anguish  than  he  had  ever  heard  before,  the 
old  gentleman  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  supported  her 
to  a  chair ;  then  running  quickly  to  the  hall,  called  loudly 
for  the  maid  below. 

There  was  a  merciless  smile  on  Jimmie  Dale's  lips. 
He  was  retreating  now  further  back  into  the  room  to- 
ward the  door  that  gave  on  the  hall. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  to  himself  through  set 
teeth,  "I  wonder  if  a  man  wouldn't  be  justified  in  putting 
an  end  for  keeps  to  that  devil  Thorold  for  this !" 

He  heard  the  maid  come  rushing  up  the  stairs.  He 
could  no  longer  see  into  the  other  room  now,  but  a  con- 
fused mingling  of  voices  reached  him: 

".  .  .  The  police  .  .  .  next  door  and  telephone  .  .  . 
the  light  .  .  .  while  we  were  at  dinner  .  .  ." 

Jimmie  Dale  opened  the  door,  slipped  across  the  hall, 


60         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

made  his  way  silently  and  swiftly  down  the  stairs,  and 
with  the  single  precaution  of  pulling  his  slouch  hat  far 
down  over  his  eyes,  stepped  boldly  out  of  the  front  door, 
walked  quietly  down  the  steps,  walked  briskly,  but  with- 
out apparent  haste,  along  the  street — and  turned  the  first 
corner. 


CHAPTER  V 
"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!*' 

JIMMIE  DALE  hurried  now,  making  his  way  to  the 
nearest  subway  station,  and  took  a  downtown  train. 
"There  should  be  no  danger,"  the  Tocsin  had  written.  His 
eyes  d&rkened  with  a  flash  of  passion.  Danger!  Danger 
was  a  small,  pitiful  factor  now!  He  had  been  too  late 
trough  no  fault  either  of  his  or  the  Tocsin's — but  he 
«till  knew  where  the  pendant  was,  or  would  be!  Time 
was  counting  again;  he  was  afraid  now  only  that  he 
might  be  too  late  a  second  time.  Old  Attic  would  not 
let  any  grass  grow  under  his  feet  in  disposing  of  the 
diamonds  through  one  of  the  many  channels  at  his  com- 
mand, and  once  they  had  passed  out  of  that  scoundrel's 
hands  they  were  as  good  as  hopelessly  lost.  Also  there 
was  Thorold  to  reckon  with.  Thorold  would  naturally 
get  the  pendant  first,  then  turn  it  over  to  Jake  KisniefF. 
Had  Thorold  already  done  so?  It  depended,  of  course, 
on  when  the  theft  had  been  committed.  That  snatch 
of  conversation — "the  light  .  .  .  when  we  were  at  din- 
ner"— came  back  to  him.  His  brows  gathered.  He 
crouched  a  little  in  his  seat,  staring  abstractedly  at  the 
black  tunnel  walls  without.  Station  after  station  was 
passed.  Jimmie  Dale's  hand,  resing  on  the  window  sill, 
was  so  tightly  clenched  that  it  seemed  the  skin  must 
crack  across  the  knuckles. 

But  he  was  smiling  when  he  left  the  subway — only  it 
was  that  same  merciless  smile  once  more.     It  was  not 

61 


62         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

alone  the  mere  act  of  robbery  that  fanned  his  anger  to 
a  white  heat.  Again  and  again,  he  was  picturing  in  his 
mind  that  fine  old  gray-haired  couple;  again  and  again 
he  saw  the  old  colonel  bend  and  lift  that  sweet  face  to 
his,  and  saw  them  look  into  each  other's  eyes.  There 
was  something  holy,  something  reverent  in  that  love 
which  the  years  had  ripened  and  mellowed  with  tender- 
ness ;  something  that  was  profound,  that  made  of  this 
night's  work  a  sacrilege  in  touching  them — and  that  poor 
jewel,  clung  to  all  too  obviously  througk  adversity  for 
its  past  associations,  was  probably  the  last  real  thing  of 
intrinsic  value  they  possessed! 

"I  am  not  sure,"  muttered  Jimmie  Dale — he  was  finger- 
ing the  automatic  in  his  pocket,  "I  am  not  sure  that  I 
can  trust  myself  to-night !" 

Ten  minutes'  walk  from  the  subway  brought  him  be- 
fore a  dingy  and  dilapidated  three-story  tenement  on 
the  East  Side.  The  Nest,  they  called  it  in  the  under- 
world; and  worthily  so,  for  its  roof  sheltered  more  of 
the  cheaper  and  petty  class  of  criminals  probably  than 
any  other  single  dwelling  in  New  York — the  steerers, 
the  hangers-on,  the  stalls,  those  of  the  lesser  breed  of 
vultures,  and  the  more  vicious  therefore,  who  at  best 
made  but  a  precarious  livelihood  from  their  iniquitous 
pursuits. 

One  of  Jimmie  Dale's  shoulders  was  hunched  forward, 
giving  a  crude  and  ill-fitting  set  to  his  fashionably  tai- 
lored, Fifth  Avenue  coat;  he  staggered  slightly,  and  the 
flap  of  his  collar  protruded,  while  his  tie,  pulled  out, 
sprawled  over  his  vest ;  also  his  slouch  hat,  badly  crushed 
and  looking  as  though  it  had  rolled  in  the  mire  of  the 
street,  was  tilted  forward  at  an  unhappy  angle  until  it 
was  balanced  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  Men,  women, 
and  children  passed  him  by — for  the  street  was  crowded 
— paying  him  not  the  slightest  attention.  He  lurched 


"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"         63 

in  through  the  front  door  of  the  tenement,  swayed  up 
against  the  hallway  inside — and  stood  there,  still  sway- 
ing a  little. 

It  was  dark  here,  and  the  atmosphere  was  musty  and 
fetid;  a  murmur  pervaded  the  place  as  of  voices  behind 
many  closed  doors,  but  apart  from  that  the  tenement 
might  have  been  empty  and  deserted  for  all  the  signs 
of  life  it  evidenced.  And  then  the  spot  where  Jimmie 
Dale  had  stood  was  vacant,  and  he  was  along  the  narrow 
hallway  without  a  sound,  and,  opening  a  door  at  the 
rear,  stood  peering  out.  After  a  moment,  he  closed  the 
door  again  without  fastening  it;  and,  back  once  more 
toward  the  front  of  the  hallway,  began  to  creep  silently 
up  the  stairs. 

He  reached  the  top  landing.  Old  Attic  had  two  miser- 
able rooms  here,  where  he  conducted  his  even  more 
miserable  business!  Jimmie  Dale  dropped  on  his  knees 
before  the  door  that  faced  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and 
placed  his  ear  to  the  panel.  Noiselessly  he  tried  the 
door.  It  was  locked.  He  was  smiling  that  merciless 
smile  again  in  the  darkness,  as  his  deft,  slim  fingers 
worked  at  the  keyhole.  He  was  not  too  late  this  time! 
Old  Jake  was  there,  and — yes,  Thorold,  too.  They  were 
even  now  haggling  over  the  pendant — he  could  hear  them 
quite  distinctly  now  with  the  door  open  a  crack. 

He  pushed  the  door  open  a  little  wider,  but  very 
slowly,  scarcely  an  inch  at  a  time.  He  was  in  luck  again ! 
They  were  in  the  inner  room.  He  opened  the  door  still 
a  little  wider,  stepped  softly  over  the  threshold,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Save  for  a  dim  light  that  filtered  out  through  the  half 
open  door  of  the  inner  room,  it  was  dark  here.  Slowly, 
with  that  almost  uncanny,  silent  tread  that  he  had  ac- 
quired on  the  creaky,  rickety  stairs  of  the  old  Sanctuary, 
Jimmie  Dale  began  to  move  forward,  the  weight  of  his 


64         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

body  wholly  and  firmly  on  one  foot  before  the  other  wa§ 
lifted  from  the  floor;  and,  as  he  advanced,  the  black 
silk  mask,  from  a  pocket  in  the  leather  girdle,  was  drawn 
over  his  face. 

He  could  see  them  now  quite  plainly — the  twisted, 
crunched-up  form  of  old  Jake,  with  his  tawny-bearded 
face,  and  narrow,  shifting  little  black  eyes ;  the  smooth- 
shaven,  suave,  oily,  cunning  countenance  of  Thorold, 
the  super-crook.  Both  were  sitting  at  a  table  in  the 
miserly  appointed  room,  whose  only  other  articles  of 
furniture  were  a  cheap  iron  bed  and  a  few  chairs.  Old 
Jake  was  whining;  Thorold's  voice  held  an  angry  rasp. 

"Four  thousand,  you  cursed  miser,  and  not  a  cent  less," 
Thorold  was  saying. 

"Three,"  whined  the  other.  "You  ain't  splitting  fair. 
I  got  to  take  the  stones  out  of  their  setting,  and  sell 
'em  for  what  I  can  get.  Stolen  stuff's  got  to  go  cheap. 
You  know  that." 

"It's  worth  ten  or  twelve,  and  you'll  get  at  least  eight 
for  it,"  growled  Thorold.  "That's  four  apiece— and  I've 
got  to  split  mine  again  with  the  guy  that  pinched  it 
Hurry  up,  d'yer  hear— I've  got  a  date  with  him  in  half 
an  hour  over  in  my  office." 

"Ha,  ha!"  cackled  old  Jake.  "Are  you  trying  to  be 
funny?  All  the  thief  gets  out  of  it  from  you  won't  make 
much  of  a  hole  in  your  share !" 

"That's  my  business!"  snapped  Thorold.  "You  come 
across !" 

"Three !"  whined  old  Jake  again. 

"Four!"  Thorold  flung  back  angrily. 

"Well,  let's  have  a  look  at  it  then ;  I  ain't  seen  it  for 
years,"  grumbled  old  Jake.  "I  ain't  trying  to  do  you. 
We  went  into  this  thing  so's  we'd  each  get  the  same  out 
of  it ;  but  I  tell  you  it  ain't  easy  to  shove  big  stones  when 


"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"          65 

there'll  be  a  police  description  out  against  them,  and  there 
ain't  no  big  prices  for  'em,  either." 

Thorold  reached  into  his  pocket — and  even  in  the  dull 
light  of  the  single  gas-jet  that  alone  illuminated  the 
room,  Jimmie  Dale  caught  the  fire  and  flash  of  the 
magnificent  stones  in  the  pendant  that  swung  to  and  fro 
now,  as  the  man  held  it  up. 

Old  Jake,  his  hand  trembling  with  eagerness,  snatched 
at  it,  and,  as  Thorold  laughed  shortly,  dove  his  fingers 
into  a  greasy  vest  pocket,  and  produced  a  jeweller's  mag- 
nifying glass,  which  he  screwed  into  his  eye. 

"One  of  these  has  got  a  flaw,  and  it's  cloudy,"  he 
mumbled. 

"Never  mind  about  the  flaw!  Flash  your  wad!"  in- 
vited Thorold,  with  a  thin  smile. 

Jimmie  Dale's  hand  slipped  under  his  vest  to  a  pocket 
m  the  leather  girdle,  and  from  the  thin  metal  case,  with 
the  aid  of  the  tiny  tweezers,  lifted  out  a  gray  seal,  and 
laid  it  lightly  on  the  inside  edge  of  his  left-hand  sleeve. 
He  replaced  the  metal  case  with  his  right  hand,  and  with 
kis  right  hand  drew  his  automatic  from  his  pocket  He 
crept  forward  again,  inch  by  inch  toward  the  door  of 
;(he  inner  room. 

Old  Jake  laid  the  pendant  on  the  table,  and  from  some 
mysterious  recess  in  his  clothing  pulled  out  a  huge  roll 
of  banknotes. 

"I'll  make  it  three  and  a  half  until  I  see  what  I  can 
get  for  it.  That's  all  I've  got  here,  anyway."  He  began 
to  count  the  money,  laying  it  bill  by  bill  on  the  table. 
"If  I  get  more  than  seven,  I'll  split  the  difference  even. 
That's  fair.  That's  the  way  it's  been  ever  since  we 
started  this.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  can  get  for 
this,  and " 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  was  in  the  room,  his  automatic 
covering  the  two  men. 


166         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"Don't  move  please,  gentlemen!"  he  said  quietly,  as 
he  stepped  to  the  table.  His  eyes  behind  the  mask 
travelled  from  the  diamond  pendant  to  the  pile  of  bank- 
notes, and  from  the  banknotes  to  the  two  men,  whose 
faces  had  gone  suddenly  white,  and  who  now  sat  rigidly 
in  their  chairs,  as  though  turned  to  stone.  "I  appear 
to  be  in  luck  to-night !"  His  lips,  just  showing  beneath 
the  mask,  parted  in  a  hard  smile.  "I  was  passing  by, 

and "     His  left  hand  reached  out,   swept  up  the 

money  and  the  diamond  pendant — and  in  their  place,  flut- 
tering from  his  sleeve,  a  gray  seal  fell  upon  the  table. 

There  was  a  sharp,  quick  cry  from  Thorold — and  the 
muzzle  of  Jimmie  Dale's  automatic  swung  like  a  flash 
to  a  level  with  the  man's  eyes.  Old  Jake  had  crumpled 
up  now  in  his  chair,  and  was  glaring  wildly  at  the  little 
diamond-shaped  piece  of  paper;  he  licked  his  lips  with 
his  tongue,  there  was  fear  in  his  eyes 

"The  Gray  Seal!  The  Gray  Seal!"  he  muttered 
hoarsely. 

"I  appear  to  be  in  luck  to-night!"  said  Jimmie  Dale 
again.  "And" — he  put  the  money  and  the  diamond 
pendant  coolly  in  his  pocket — "it  would  be  too  bad  if  I 
didn't  play  it  up,  wouldn't  it?  It  doesn't  often  come  as 
easy  as  this.  Amazing  carelessness  to  leave  that  outside 
door  unlocked !  But,  as  I  was  saying,  with  such  a  lavish 
display  of  opulence  on  the  table,  one  is  almost  led  to 
hope  that  there  might  be  more  where  that  came  from, 
Now " 

"I  haven't  got  any  more — not  another  cent!  Honest, 
I  haven't!"  old  Jake  cried  hysterically.  "I  swear  to 
God,  I  haven't,  and " 

"You  hold  your  tongue!"  There  was  a  sudden  snarl 
in  Jimmie  Dale's  low  tones.  The  man's  voice  was  rising 
dangerously  loud.  "I'll  attend  to  you  in  a  moment !"  He 
swung  on  Thorold  again;  and,  with  his  pistol  pressed 


"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"          67 

close  against  the  man,  felt  deftly  and  swiftly  over  the 
other  in  search  of  weapons.  He  laughed  tersely,  finding 
none.  "Empty  your  pockets  out  on  the  table!"  he  or- 
dered curtly. 

The  man  hesitated. 

Jimmie  Dale  smiled — unpleasantly. 

Thorold  swept  a  bead  of  sweat  from  his  forehead.  His 
lips  were  working  nervously.  All  suavity  and  polish 
were  gone  now ;  there  were  only  viciousness  and  fear, 
each  struggling  with  the  other  for  the  mastery  in  the 
man's  smug  face. 

"Damn  you,  you  blasted  snitch!"  he  burst  out  furi- 
ously. "We'll  get  you  down  here  some  day,  and " 

"Some  day,  perhaps,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  softly.  "But 
to-night — did  I  explain  that  I  was  in  a  hurry — Thorold! 
Every  pocket  inside  out,  please !" 

Thorold's  hand  went  reluctantly  to  his  pockets.  He 
began  with  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat,  laying  a  pile 
of  letters  and  papers  on  the  table. 

"Anything  there  you  want  ?"  he  sneered. 

"Go  on!"  prompted  Jimmie  Dale. 

From  vest  pockets  came  a  varied  assortment  of  articles 
—watch,  cigars,  a  cigar-cutter,  a  silver-mounted  pencil, 
and  a  fountain  pen.  The  man's  hands  travelled  to  his 
outside  coat  pockets. 

"The  inside  pocket  of  the  vest,  Thorold,"  suggested 
Jimmie  Dale  coldly. 

With  a  malicious  snort,  Thorold  unbuttoned  his  vest, 
and  turned  the  pocket  out.  There  was  nothing  in  it. 

Jimmie  Dale  nodded  complacently. 

"My  mistake,  Thorold,"  he  murmured  apologetically. 
"Go  on!" 

The  man  continued  to  denude  himself  of  his  effects, 
but  with  increasing  savagery  and  reluctance.  There  was 
silence  in  the  room — and  then  suddenly,  so  faint  as  to 


68         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

be  almost  inaudible,  there  was  a  soft  pat  upon  the  floor. 
Jimmie  Dale  did  not  turn  his  head. 

"I  think  you  dropped  something,  Jake,"  he  observed 
pleasantly.  "Now  take  your  foot  off  it,  and  put  it  on  the 
table!" 

A  miserable  smile  twisting  his  lips,  old  Jake  stooped, 
picked  up  a  roll  of  bills,  and,  mumbling  and  crooning  to 
himself,  laid  it  on  the  table.  Jimmie  Dale  immediately 
transferred  it  to  his  pocket. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  certainly  seem  to  be  in  luck  to- 
night! That  all  you  got,  Thorold?"  He  reached  for- 
ward, and  possessed  himself  of  a  well-filled  wallet  that 
Thorold  had  added  to  the  heterogeneous  collection  in 
front  of  him. 

Thorold's  face  was  black  with  fury. 

"There's  the  watch,  you  cheap  poke-getter!"  he 
choked.  "Don't  forget  to  frisk  that  while  you're  at  it !" 

Jimmie  Dale  examined  the  collection  with  a  sort  of  im- 
perturbable appraisement. 

"No,"  he  said  judicially.  "You  can  keep  your  watch, 
Thorold ;  I  haven't  got  the  same  lay  as  our  friend  Jake 
here,  and  that  sort  of  thing  is  too  hard  to  get  rid  of  to 
make  it  worth  while.  I'll  take  these,  and  that's  all.'1 
He  whipped  the  pile  of  letters  and  papers  into  his  pocket, 
"You  see,  with  a  man  of  your  profession,  there  is  al- 
ways the  chance  of  there  being  something  valuabk 
amongst " 

Jimmie  Dale  never  finished  the  sentence.  With  a 
sudden,  low,  tigerish  cry,  Thorold  heaved  the  end  of  th« 
table  upward  between  himself  and  Jimmie  Dale — and, 
quick  as  a  cat,  as  Jimmie  Dale  staggered  backward, 
leaped  from  behind  it. 

"Get  him,  Jake !  Get  him,  Jake !"  he  cried.  "He  won't 
dare  to  fire  in  here  for  the  noise.  Get  him,  you  foot 
he " 


"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"          69 

But  Jimmie  Dale  was  the  quicker  of  the  two.  A 
vicious  left  full  on  the  point  of  Thorold's  jaw  stopped 
the  man's  rush — but  only  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 
Thorold,  recovering  instantly,  flung  his  body  forward,  and 
his  arms  wrapped  themselves  around  Jimmie  Dale's  neck. 
And  now,  old  Jake,  screeching  like  a  madman,  was 
circling  around  them,  snatching,  clawing,  striking  at 
Jimmie  Dale's  face  and  head. 

Thorold  was  a  powerful  man;  and  at  the  first  tight- 
locked  grip,  as  they  swayed  together,  trained  athlete 
though  he  was  himself,  Jimmie  Dale  realised  that  he  had 
met  his  match.  Again  and  again,  with  all  his  strength 
he  tried  to  throw  the  other  from  him.  Around  and 
Around  the  room  they  staggered  and  lurched — and  around 
*nd  around  them  followed  the  wizened,  twisted  form  of 
old  Jake,  like  a  hovering  hawk,  darting  in  at  every 
opportunity  for  a  blow,  shrieking,  yelling,  cursing  with 
infuriated  abandon.  And  then  from  below,  a  greater 
peril  still,  came  the  opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  voices 
calling — the  tenement,  at  the  racket,  like  a  hive  of 
aornets  disturbed,  was  beginning  to  stir  into  life.  If 
diey  caught  him  there!  If  they  caught  the  Gray  Seal 
there !  It  brought  a  desperate  strength  to  Jimmie  Dale. 
He  had  heard  too  often  that  slogan  of  the  underworld— 
death  to  the  Gray  Seal! 

He  tore  one  of  Thorold's  arms  free  from  his  neck— • 
they  were  cheek  to  cheek — Thorold  was  snarling  out  a 
torrent  of  blasphemy  with  gasping  breath — he  wrenched 
himself  free  still — and  then,  their  two  hands  outstretched 
and  clasped  together  as  though  in  some  grim  devil's 
waltz,  they  reeled  toward  the  bed  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  and  smashed  into  a  chair.  And,  as  they  lost 
their  balance,  Jimmie  Dale,  gathering  all  his  strength  for 
the  one  supreme  effort,  hurled  the  other  from  him.  There 
was  a  crash  that  shook  the  floor,  as  Thorold,  hurtling 


70         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

backwards,  struck  his  head  with  terrific  force  against  the 
iron  bedstead,  and  dropped  like  a  log. 

Jimmie  Dale  was  on  his  feet  again  in  an  instant — but 
not  before  old  Jake  had  run,  yelling  madly,  from  the 
room.  A  glance  Jimmie  Dale  gave  at  Thorold,  who  lay 
limp  and  motionless,  a  crimson  stream  beginning  to 
trickle  over  temple  and  cheek;  then,  with  a  bound,  he 
reached  the  gas-jet,  and  turned  out  the  light. 

Old  Jake's  voice  screamed  from  the  hallway  without: 

"Help!  The  Gray  Seal!  The  Gray  Seal!  Help! 
Help!  Quick!  The  Gray  Seal!" 

The  staircase  creaked  under  the  rush  of  feet ;  yells  be-* 
gan  to  well  up  from  below.  Jimmie  Dale  darted  into 
the  outer  room,  and  crouched  down  beside  the  doorway. 

"Death  to  the  Gray  Seal!"  The  whole  building,  in  & 
pandemonium  of  hellish  glee,  seemed  to  echo  and  re- 
echo the  shout. 

Jimmie  Dale  was  deadly  calm  now,  as  his  fingers  closed 
around  his  automatic — and,  deadly  cool,  the  keen,  alert, 
active  brain  was  at  work.  It  was  black  about  him,  pitch 
black,  there  were  no  lights  in  the  hallway — yes,  a  dull 
glimmer  now — a  door  farther  along  had  opened — but 
dark  enough  in  here  where  he  waited.  There  was  a 
chance — with  the  odds  heavily  against  him — but  it  was 
the  only  way. 

They  were  on  the  landing  outside  now;  and  now,  old 
Jake  shouting  excitedly  amongst  them,  a  dozen  forms 
swept  through  the  doorway,  and  scuffling,  stamping,  yell- 
ing, made  for  the  inner  room — and  Jimmie  Dale  slipped 
out  into  the  hall.  His  lips  pressed  tightly  together.  That 
had  been  as  he  had  expected,  but  the  danger  still  lay 
before  him — in  the  three  flights  of  stairs.  Some  one 
was  coming  up  now,  more  than  one,  the  stragglers — but 
there  would  be  stragglers  until  the  last  occupant  of  the 
tenement  was  aroused.  He  dared  not  wait  In  a  minute 


"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"          71S 

more,  in  less  than  a  minute,  they  would  have  lighted 
the  gas  again  in  there  and  found  him  gone. 

He  jumped  for  the  head  of  the  stairs — a  dark  form 
loomed  up  before  him.  Jimmie  Dale  launched  himself 
full  at  the  other.  There  was  a  cry  of  surprise,  an  oath, 
the  man  pitched  sideways,  and  Jimmie  Dale  sprang  by. 
A  yell  went  up  from  the  man  behind  him ;  it  was  echoed 
by  a  wild  chorus  from  above,  as  of  wolves  robbed  of 
their  prey;  it  was  re-echoed  by  shouts  from  the  stair- 
ways and  halls  below — and  with  his  left  hand  on  the 
bannisters  to  guide  him,  taking  the  stairs  four  and  five 
at  a  time,  Jimmie  Dale  went  down — and  now,  aiming  at 
the  ground,  his  revolver  spat  and  barked  a  vicious  warn- 
ing, cutting  lurid  flashes  through  the  murk  ahead  of  him. 

Doors  that  were  open  along  the  hallways  shut  with  a 
hurried  bang;  dark  forms,  like  rats  running  for  their 
holes,  scuttled  to  safety ;  women  screamed  and  shrieked ; 
,  children  whimpered.  On  Jimmie  Dale  ran.  For  the 
second  time  he  crashed  into  a  form,  and  won  by.  They 
were  firing  at  him  from  above  now — but  by  guesswork 
— firing  down  the  stair  well.  The  pound  of  feet  racing 
down  the  stairs  came  from  behind  him — two  flights  be- 
hind him — he  calculated  he  had  that  much  start.  He  gained 
the  entrance  hallway  where  all  was  dark,  leaped  for  the 
front  door,  opened  it,  pulled  it  shut  with  a  violent  slam — 
and,  whirling  instantly,  running  swiftly  and  silently  back 
along  the  hall,  he  reached  the  rear  door  that  he  had  left 
unfastened,  darted  out,  and  a  moment  later,  swinging 
himself  over  a  high,  backyard  fence,  dropped  down  into 
the  lane  beyond.  Whipping  off  his  mask,  he  ran  on  like 
a  hare  until  he  approached  the  lane's  intersection  with  a 
cross  street.  And  here,  well  back  from  the  street,  he 
paused  to  regain  his  breath  and  rearrange  his  dishevelled 
attire;  then,  edging  forward,  he  peered  cautiously  up 
and  down — and  smiled  grimly — and  stepped  out  oa  Uia 


72         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

street.    He  was  a  good  block  away  from  the  tenement. 

From  the  direction  of  the  Nest  came  sounds  of  dis- 
order and  riot.  A  patrolman's  whistle  rang  out  shrilly. 
It  had  been  as  close  a  call  perhaps  as  the  Gray  Seal  had 
ever  known — but,  at  that,  the  night's  work  was  not 
ended!  There  was  still  the  actual  thief.  Thorold  had 
said  he  was  to  meet  the  man  in  his,  Thorold's,  office  in 
half  an  hour  to  split  their  ill-gotten  gains.  Jimmie  Dale'*! 
jaw  squared.  The  thief !  His  hand  at  his  side  clenched, 
suddenly.  Would  it  be  only  the  thief,  or  would  he  hav" 
to  reckon  with  Thorold  again  as  well?  Could  Thorol'l 
keep  the  appointment  ?  It  was  a  question  of  how  badlf 
Thorold  was  hurt,  and  that  he  did  not  know. 

Jimmie  Dale  walked  on  another  block,  still  anotheit 
then  turned  so  as  to  bring  him  into,  but  well  up,  thf 
street  on  which  the  tenement  was  situated.  From  her** 
far  down  the  ill-lighted  street,  he  could  see  a  mob  gath 
ered  outside  the  Nest.  And  then,  as  he  stood  hesitant, 
there  came  the  strident  clang  of  a  bell,  the  beat  of  hoof 4, 
and  he  caught  the  name  of  the  hospital  on  the  side  of  ai* 
ambulance  as  it  tore  by — and,  at  that,  he  swung  sud  : 
denly  about,  and,  making  his  way  across  to  Broadway, 
boarded  an  uptown  car. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  he  closed  the  door  of  a  tele- 
phone booth  in  a  saloon  on  lower  Sixth  Avenue  behind 
him,  and  consulting  the  directory  for  the  number,  called 
the  hospital. 

"This  is  police  headquarters  speaking,"  said  Jimmie 
Dale  coolly.  "What's  the  condition  of  that  tenement  case 
.with  the  broken  head  ?" 

"Hold  the  wire  a  minute,"  came  the  answer ;  and  then, 
presently :  "Not  serious ;  but  still  unconscious." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jimmie  Dale. 

He  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  made  his  way  out  to  the 
street.  The  coast  was  clear  then,  as  far  as  Thorold  wa/ 


"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"          73 

concerned.  Jimmie  Dale  walked  on  halfway  up  the 
block,  and  turned  into  the  lighted  hallway  of  a  small 
building  whose  second  floor,  above  a  millinery  estab- 
lishment, was  rented  out  for  offices.  It  was  here  that 
Thorold  maintained  what  he  called  his  "office."  Mount- 
ing the  stairs  and  emerging  upon  a  narrow  corridor,  that 
was  lighted  at  one  end  by  a  single  incandescent,  Jimmie 
Dale  halted  before  a  door  that  bore  the  legend :  HENRY 
THOROLD— AGENT.  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  twisted  into 
grim  lines.  Agent — of  what?  He  glanced  quickly  up 
and  down  the  corridor,  slipped  his  little  steel  instrument 
into  the  lock,  and  opened  the  door. 

He  stepped  inside,  closing  the  door  without  re-locking 
it;  and,  using  his  flashlight  now,  moved  forward,  and 
entered  a  sort  of  inner  office  that  was  partitioned  off 
from  the  rest  of  the  room.  There  was  a  flat-topped  desk 
here,  a  swivel  chair,  an  armchair,  a  rather  good  drawing 
or  two  on  the  walls,  and  a  soft  yielding  carpet  under- 
foot. Thorold  was  far  too  clever  to  overdo  anything — 
it  was  simply  businesslike,  with  an  air  of  modest  success 
about  it. 

Jimmie  Dale  appropriated  the  swivel  chair  behind  the 
desk.  Half  an  hour  from  the  time  he  had  left  the  tene- 
ment! He  should  not  have  long  to  wait,  for  he  had 
used  up  nearly,  if  not  quite,  all  of  that  time  already,  and 
the  thief  would  certainly  have  every  incentive  to  be 
punctual.  He  laid  his  flashlight,  turned  on,  upon  the 
desk,  and,  taking  his  automatic  from  his  pocket,  ex- 
amined it.  There  were  still  two  cartridges  remaining  in 
the  magazine.  He  slipped  the  weapon  into  the  side 
pocket  of  his  coat,  and  began  to  sort  over  the  papers  and 
letters  he  had  taken  from  Thorold.  He  opened  one — a 
letter — glanced  at  its  contents — and  nodded.  It  was  the 
one  to  which  the  Tocsin  had  referred.  He  returned  the 
others  to  his  pocket,  began  to  read  the  one  in  his  hand— 


74         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

and  suddenly,  leaning  forward,  snapped  out  his  light 
Was  that  a  step  coming  up  the  stairs? 

He  listened  now  intently.  Yes,  it  was  coming  nearer. 
He  laid  down  the  letter  on  the  desk,  and  put  on  his  mask. 
Still  nearer  came  the  step.  It  had  halted  now  before  the 
door.  And  now  the  hall  door  opened  and  closed.  Jimmie 
Dale  sat  motionless,  except  that  his  hand  crept  to  his 
coat  pocket,  and  from  his  coat  pocket  to  the  desk  again. 
The  door  closed  softly — a  man  had  entered  the  outer 
room — and  certainly  a  man  who  was  no  stranger  to  the 
place,  for  he  was  moving  unerringly  in  the  darkness  to- 
ward the  partition  door.  The  man  was  in  the  inner 
office  now,  passing  the  desk,  so  close  that  Jimmie  Dale 
could  have  reached  out  and  touched  him.  There  was  a 
soft,  rubbing  sound  as  the  man's  hand  felt  along  the  wall 
for  the  electric  light  switch,  a  click,  the  room  was  sud- 
denly flooded  with  light;  and,  with  a  low  cry,  blinking 
there  in  the  glare,  staring  at  Jimmie  Dale's  masked  face 
•—stood  Colonel  Milford. 

And  then  the  old  gentleman  swayed,  and  caught  at  the 
back  of  the  armchair  for  support — upon  the  desk  lay  the 
diamond  pendant,  glittering  under  the  light. 

"My  God !"  he  whispered.    "What  does  this  mean  ?" 

"It  means,  colonel,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  softly,  "that 
Thorold  couldn't  come,  that  old  Jake  found  one  of  the 
diamonds  cloudy  and  with  a  flaw,  and  that  the  deal  fell 
through — and  it  means,  colonel,  that  you  will  never  be 
called  upon  to  steal  Mrs.  Milford's  diamonds  again; 
there  is  a  letter  here  that " 

"The  letter!"  The  old  gentleman  was  staggering  to- 
ward the  desk.  He  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  letter, 
hesitated  as  though  he  were  afraid  that  Jimmie  Dale  was 
only  tantalising  him,  would  never  let  him  have  it — and 
then  with  a  little  cry  of  wondrous  gladness,  he  snatched 
it  to  him. 


"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"         75 

"I'd  destroy  that  if  I  were  you,"  suggested  Jimmie 
Dale  quietly.  "I  don't  imagine  that  Thorold  or  old  Jake 
will  ever  bother  you  again,  but  there  are  lots  of  'Thor- 
olds'  in  New  York."  He  motioned  toward  the  pendant. 
"That  is  yours,  too,  colonel." 

The  old  gentleman  was  fingering  the  letter  over  and 
over,  as  though  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  actually  in 
his  possession;  and  into  his  blue  eyes,  as  they  travelled 
back  and  forth  from  the  pendant  to  Jimmie  Dale,  there 
crept  a  half  wondering,  half  wistful  light. 

"I  do  not  know  why  you  have  done  this  for  me,  or  wha 
you  are,  sir,"  he  said  brokenly.  "But  at  least  I  under- 
stand that  in  some  strange  way  you  have  stepped  in  be- 
tween me  and — and  those  men.  You — you  know  the 
story,  then?" 

"Only  partially,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  with  a  smile,  as  he 
shook  his  head.  "But  you  need  not " 

"I  would  wish  to  thank  you,  sir."  The  old  Southerner 
was  stately  now  in  his  emotion.  "I  can  never  do  so  ade- 
quately. You  are  at  least  entitled  to  my  confidence." 
His  face  grew  a  little  whiter;  he  drew  himself  up  as 
though  to  meet  a  blow.  "My  boy,  my  son,  sir,  stole  a 
large  sum  of  money  from  the  bank  where  he  was  em- 
ployed in  New  Orleans.  He  was  not  suspected;  and  in- 
deed, as  far  as  the  bank  is  concerned,  the  matter  remains 
a  mystery  to  this  day.  Shortly  afterwards  the  Spanish 
war  broke  out.  My  son  was  an  officer  in  a  local  regi- 
ment. He  obtained  an  appointment  for  the  front."  The 
old  gentleman  paused ;  then  he  stood  erect,  head  back,  at 
salute,  like  the  gallant  old  soldier  that  he  was.  "My 
son,  sir,  was  a  thief;  but  he  redeemed  himself,  and  he 
redeemed  his  name — he  fell  at  the  head  of  his  company, 
leading  his  men." 

Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  had  grown  suddenly  moist. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  simply. 


76         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"He  wrote  this  letter  to  me,  making  a  full  confession 
of  his  guilt ;  and  gave  it  to  me,  telling  me  not  to  open  it 
unless  he  should  not  come  back."  The  colonel's  voice 
broke;  then,  with  an  effort,  steadied  again.  "It  would 
have  killed  his  mother,  sir.  It  strained  our  resources 
most  severely  to  pay  back  the  money  to  the  bank,  and 
I  lied  to  her,  sir — I  told  her  that  our  investments  were 
proving  unfortunate.  Two  years  ago  I  completed  the 
final  payment  without  the  bank  ever  having  found  out 
where  the  money  came  from ;  and  then  we  moved  up  here 
to  New  York.  You  see,  sir,  it  was  a  little  difficult  to 
maintain  our  former  position  in  Louisiana,  and  amongst 
strangers  less  would  be  expected  of  us.  And  then,  sir, 
shortly  after  that,  I  do  not  know  how,  this  letter  was 
stolen,  and  for  two  years  Thorold  has  held  it  over  my 
head,  threatening  to  make  it  public  if  I  refused  his  de- 
mands. I  gave  him  all  the  money  I  could  get.  I  have 
thought  sometimes,  sir,  that  I  should  put  a  revolver  in 
my  pocket  and  come  down  here  and  shoot  him  like  a 
dog — but  then,  sir,  the  story,  I  was  afraid,  would  come 
out.  Yesterday  he  made  a  final  demand  for  five  thou- 
sand dollars.  I  did  not  have  the  money.  He  suggested 
Mrs.  Milford's  pendant  there.  He  promised  to  return 
the  letter,  and  any  sum  above  the  five  thousand  that  he 
could  get  for  the  diamonds.  I  knew  he  was  lying  about 
the  money;  but  I  believed  he  would  return  the  letter, 
knowing  that  I  now  had  nothing  left.  That  is  why  I  am 
here  to-night." 

Again  the  old  gentleman  paused.  It  was  very  still  in 
the  room.  Jimmie  Dale  had  taken  the  thin  metal  case 
from  his  leather  girdle  and  was  fingering  it  abstractedly. 
And  then  the  colonel  spoke  again : 

"And  so,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  stole  the  pendant  thi» 
afternoon,  and  pretended  to-night  that  it  was  done  at 
dinner-time,  and — and  pretended,  too,  to  make  the 


"DEATH  TO  THE  GRAY  SEAL!"         7T 

covery  of  the  theft  myself.  You  see,  sir,  it  was  not  only 
the  old  name  that  would  be  smirched — there  was  the  boy 
to  think  of,  and  he  had  redeemed  himself.  And  Mrs.  Mil~ 
ford  would  have  wanted  me  to  do  that,  to  take  a  thousand 
of  her  jewels,  if  she  had  had  them,  if  she  had  known—- 
but, you  see,  sir,  she  could  not  know  without  it  break- 
ing her  heart — I  think  the  dearest  thing  in  life  to  her  13 
the  boy's  memory." 

Outside  on  Sixth  Avenue  an  elevated  train  roared  and 
thundered  by — it  seemed  strangely  extraneous  and  in- 
congruous. 

"And  now,  sir" — the  old  gentleman's  voice  seemed 
tired,  a  little  weary — "though  you  give  me  back  the 
pendant,  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  return  it  to  my  wife.  It 
was  part  of  the  agreement  that  I  should  notify  the  police 
—it  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  inform  against  Thor- 
old,  for — for  I  was  the  thief." 

Jimmie  Dale  nodded.  "I  was  thinking  of  that,"  he  said. 

He  opened  the  metal  case;  and,  while  the  old  gentle- 
man watched  in  amazement  and  growing  consternation, 
he  lifted  out  a  gray  paper  seal  with  his  tweezers,  moist- 
ened the  adhesive  side  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  and 
pressed  the  seal  firmly  with  his  coat  sleeve  over  the  cen- 
tral cluster  of  the  pendant. 

The  old  gentleman  tried  twice  to  speak  before  a  word 
would  come. 

"You!  You— the  Gray  Seal!"  he  stammered  at  last 
"But  only  to-night  I  was  reading  in  the  papers,  and  they 
said  you  were  a  murderer,  an  ogre  of  hell,  and " 

"And  now,  possibly,"  interrupted  Jimmie  Dale  whim- 
sically, "though  circumstances  will  force  you  to  keep 
your  opinion  to  yourself,  you  may  have  an  idea  that,  as 
between  you  and  the  papers,  you  are  the  better  in- 
formed. Well,  at  least,  the  Gray  Seal's  shoulders  are 
broad !  You  need  not  worry  about  Thorold  or  old  Jake ; 


78         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

I  took  pains  to  make  them  aware  that  the  Gray  Seal-=- 
quite  inadvertently,  of  course — had  taken  a  passing  fancy 
to  the  pendant.  You  have  only  to  wrap  it  up,  and  send  it 
by  mail  to  yourself;  and  when  it  arrives" — he  laughed 
softly,  as  he  stood  up — "notify  the  police  again.  Let 
them  do  the  theorising — it  is  one  of  their  cherished 
amusements!  And,  oh,  by  the  way,  colonel,  have  you 
any  idea  how  much  Thorold  and  his  precious  friend 
Kisnieff  have  blackmailed  you  out  of  in  the  last  two 
years  ?" 

"I  did  not  have  very  much  left  when  I  came  to  New 
York,"  said  the  colonel,  in  a  stunned  way,  still  staring 
at  the  gray  paper  seal.  "Between  four  and  five  thousand 
dollars." 

"That's  too  bad,"  murmured  Jimmie  Dale.     He  took 
the  banknotes  from  his  pocket,  and  laid  them  on  the  desk. 
"I  am  afraid  it  is  not  quite  all  here — but  I  can  assure  you 
it  is  all  they  had." 
.  He  held  out  his  hand. 

"But  you're  not  going!  You're  not  going  that  way!" 
cried  the  colonel,  and  his  eyes  filled  suddenly.  "How  am 
I  to  repay  you,  how  am  I  to——" 

"Very  easily,"  smiled  Jimmie  Dale ;  "and,  to  use  your 
own  expression,  very  adequately — by  remaining  here,  say, 
three  minutes  after  I  have  left."  He  caught  the  colonel's 
hand  in  his  and  wrung  it  hard — and  then,  with  a  "Good- 
night!" flung  over  his  shoulder,  Jimmie  Dale  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  REHABILITATION  OF  LARRY  THE  BAT 

THE  small  French  window  of  the  new  Sanctuary, 
that  gave  on  the  dirty  little  courtyard  which,  in 
turn,  paralleled  a  black  and  narrow  lane,  with  its  high, 
board  fence,  opened  cautiously,  noiselessly.  A  dark  form 
slipped  silently  into  the  room.  The  window  was  closed 
again.  The  dilapidated  roller  shade  was  drawn  down, 
and,  guided  by  the  sense  of  touch,  the  rent  that  gaped 
across  it  was  carefully  pinned  together.  There  was  no 
moon  to  shine  in  through  the  top-light  and  uncharitably 
disclose  the  greasy,  ragged  carpet,  or  the  squalor  of  the 
room. 

The  dark  form,  like  a  shadow,  moved  across  the  room 
to  the  door,  tried  the  lock,  slipped  an  inner  bolt  into 
place,  then  returned  halfway  back  to  the  windows,  and 
paused  by  the  wall.  A  match  flame  spurted  through  the 
blackness;  and  then,  hissing  as  though  in  protest,  the 
miserable,  clogged  gas-jet,  blue  with  air,  still  leaving  the 
corners  of  the  room  dim  and  murky,  grudgingly  lighted 
up  its  immediate  surroundings — and  Jimmie  Dale,  im- 
maculate in  evening  clothes,  stood  looking  sharply  about 
him. 

Here  and  there  about  the  room,  upon  this  article  and 
that,  as  though  fixing  its  exact  and  precise  location,  his 
glance  fell  critically ;  then  he  stepped  back  quickly  to  the 
door,  and  knelt  by  the  threshold.  The  tiny,  unobtrusive 

79 


80         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

piece  of  thread,  that  must  break  if  the  door  were  opened 
by  but  that  fraction  of  an  inch,  was  still  intact.  No  one, 
then,  had  been  here  since  last,  as  Smarlinghue,  the  seedy, 
drug- wrecked  artist,  he  had  left  the  place  the  day  be- 
fore; for,  on  entering,  he  had  already  satisfied  himself 
that  the  French  window  had  not  been  tampered  with. 

A  hard  smile  flickered  across  his  lips.  It  was  a  grim 
transition,  this,  from  the  luxury,  the  wealth  and  refine- 
ment of  New  York's  most  exclusive  club,  which  he  had 
left  but  half  an  hour  ago!  The  smile  faded,  and  he 
passed  his  hand  a  little  wearily  across  his  eyes.  The 
strain  seemed  to  grow  heavier  every  day — the  under- 
world more  prone  to  suspicion ;  the  police  more  vigilant ; 
that  ominous  slogan,  in  which  Crime  and  the  Law  for 
once  were  one,  "Death  to  the  Gray  Seal!"  to  ring  more 
constantly  in  his  ears.  It  was  becoming  more  fraught 
with  peril,  danger  and  difficulty  than  ever  before,  this 
dual  life  he  led.  And  he  had  thought  it  all  ended — 
once.  That  was  only  a  few  months  ago,  when  the  way 
had  seemed  clear  for  them  both,  for  the  Tocsin  and  him- 
self. Well,  he  was  here  to-night  to  end  it  again  if  he 
could — by  playing  perhaps  the  most  desperate  game  he 
had  ever  attempted. 

He  shook  his  head.  It  was  more  than  the  hazard, 
the  danger  and  the  peril  of  his  dual  life  that  brought  the 
strain — it  was  the  Tocsin,  his  love  for  her,  her  peril  and 
her  danger,  the  unbearable  anxiety  and  suspense  on  her 
account  that  was  never  absent  from  him.  And  it  was 
that  that  kept  him  in  the  underworld,  that  had  forced  him 
to  create  again  a  role  in  gangland,  the  role  of  Smarling- 
hue, in  the  hope  that  he  might  track  her  enemies  down. 
She  would  not  help  him.  If  she  knew,  and  she  must 
know,  the  authors  of  this  new  danger  that  had  driven 
her  once  more  into  hiding,  she  would  not  tell  him.  She 


LARRY  THE  BAT  81 

afraid — for  him.  She  had  said  that.  She  had  said 
that  she  would  fight  this  out  alone,  that  she  would  not, 
<iould  not,  whatever  the  end  might  be,  bring  him  again 
faito  the  shadows,  throw  his  life  again  into  the  balance. 
It  was  her  love,  pure,  unselfish,  a  wondrous  love,  that 
had  prompted  her  to  this  course,  he  knew  that — and 

yet But  why  all  this  again !  His  brain  was  numbed 

with  its  incessant  dwelling  upon  it  day  after  day. 

Jimmie  Dale's  hands  clenched  suddenly.  That  night, 
a  week  ago,  when  he  had  been  so  nearly  caught  in  the 
Nest,  had  brought  very  forcibly  upon  him  the  realisation 
that  he  could  not  risk  any  longer  a  haphazard  course  of 
action,  if  he  was  to  be  of  help  to  her,  for  next  time  his 
own  luck  might  go  out.  And  so  the  idea  had  come — the 
one,  single,  definite  mode  of  attack  that  lay  within  his 
power — and  he  had  used  the  week  to  advantage,  and  he 
was  ready  now.  From  the  first  it  had  seemed  almost 
pertain  that  the  danger  which  threatened  her  must  come 
from  one  of  two  sources — and  there  was  a  way  to  probe 
one  of  these  to  the  bottom.  He  did  not  know  who  they 
were,  those  who  remained  of  the  Crime  Club,  or  where 
they  were ;  but  he  knew  the  Magpie,  and  he  knew  where 
the  Magpie  was  to  be  found — and  to-night  he  would 
know,  settling  the  question  once  for  all,  all  that  the  Mag- 
pie knew ! 

He  turned,  walked  back  across  the  room,  and,  a  few 
feet  along  from  the  door,  knelt  down  close  to  the  wall. 
/\n  instant  later,  with  the  loose  section  of  the  base-board 
removed,  he  reached  inside,  and  took  out  a  curious  as- 
sortment of  garments,  which  he  laid  on  the  floor  beside 
him.  They  were  not  Smarlinghue's  clothes — they  were 
even  more  shoddy  and  disreputable.  His  brows  gathered 
critically  as  he  surveyed  the  wretched  boots,  the  mis- 
mated  socks,  the  frayed,  patched  trousers,  the  greasy 


82         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

flannel  shirt,  the  ragged  coat,  and  the  battered,  shapeless 
slouch  hat.  Matched  closely  enough  to  the  originals  to 
pass  without  question,  gathered  from  here  and  there, 
painstakingly,  with  infinite  trouble  during  the  week  that 
had  passed,  were  the  clothes  of — Larry  the  Bat. 

It  was  a  dangerous,  almost  desperate  chance;  but  he, 
too,  was  desperate  now.  To  be  caught,  even  to  be  seen 
as  Larry  the  Bat  meant  flinging  every  stake  he  had  in 
life  into  the  game.  More  rabid  than  ever  was  the  cry 
of  the  populace  for  vengeance  upon  the  Gray  Seal ;  more 
active  than  ever,  combing  den  and  dive,  their  dragnet 
spreading  from  end  to  end  of  the  city,  were  the  efforts  of 
the  police  to  effect  the  Gray  Seal's  capture;  more  like 
snarling  wolves  than  ever,  the  blood  lust  upon  them, 
mad  to  sink  their  fangs  into  the  Gray  Seal,  were  the  deni- 
zens of  the  underworld — and  populace  and  police  and 
underworld  alike  knew  Larry  the  Bat  as  the  Gray  Seal ! 
If  he  were  seen — if  he  were  caught !  They  had  thought 
that  Larry  the  Bat  had  perished  in  the  Sanctuary  fire  that 
night,  and  that  in  Larry  the  Bat  had  perished  the  Gray 
Seal.  But  the  Gray  Seal  had  been  at  work  again  since 
then;  and,  logically  enough,  there  had  followed  the  de- 
duction that,  after  all,  Larry  the  Bat  had  in  some  way 
escaped. 

Jimmie  Dale  began  to  remove  his  expensively  tailored 
dress  suit.  It  had  made  it  much  easier  for  him,  easier 
to  play  the  role  of  Smarlinghue,  easier  for  the  Gray  Seal 
to  work,  that  they,  the  populace,  police  and  underworld, 
had  of  late  searched  only  for  a  character,  a  character 
that,  in  truth,  until  to-night  had  literally  vanished  from 
the  face  of  the  earth — a  character  known  as  Larry  the 
Bat.  But  now  Larry  the  Bat  was  to  assume  tangible 
form  again,  to  accept  the  risk  of  recognition,  to  go  out 
amongst  those  whose  one  ambition  was  his  destruction, 
to  court  his  own  death,  his  ruin,  the  disclosure  that  Larry 


LARRY  THE  BAT  83 

the  Bat  was  Jimmie  Dale,  that  Jimmie  Dale,  the  million- 
aire clubman,  a  leader  in  New  York's  society,  was  there- 
fore the  Gray  Seal,  and  with  this  disclosure  drag  an 
honoured  name  in  the  mire,  be  execrated  as  a  felon. 
It  seemed  almost  the  act  of  a  fool — worse  than  that, 
indeed!  Even  a  fool  would  not  invite  the  blow  of  a 
blackjack,  the  thrust  of  a  knife,  or  a  revolver  bullet  from 
the  first  crook  in  gangland  who  recognised  him;  even  a 
fool  would  not  voluntarily  take  the  chance  of  thrusting 
his  head  through  the  door  of  one  of  Sing  Sing's  death 
cells ! 

And  for  an  instant,  fought  out  with  himself  times  with* 
out  number  though  this  had  been  since  he  had  first  con* 
ceived  the  plan,  Jimmie  Dale  hesitated.  It  was  very  stilt 
in  the  room.  In  his  hands  now  he  held  a  bundle  of  neatly 
folded  clothing  ready  to  be  tucked  away  in  the  aperture 
in  the  wall.  He  looked  around  him  unseeingly.  Then 
suddenly  the  square  jaw  clamped  hard,  and  he  stooped, 
thrust  the  bundle  into  the  opening,  and  began  rapidly  to 
dress  again — as  Larry  the  Bat. 

If  it  was  the  act  of  a  fool,  it  was  even  more  the  act  of 
a  coward  to  shrink  from  it !  It  was  the  one  way  to  force 
the  Magpie  to  lay  his  cards  face  up  upon  the  table.  It 
was  the  Magpie  who  had  discovered  that  Larry  the  Bat 
was  the  Gray  Seal ;  it  was  the  Magpie  who  had  led  gang- 
land to  batter  down  the  Sanctuary  doors ;  it  was  the  Mag- 
pie who  had  clamoured  the  loudest  of  them  all  for  the 
Gray  Seal's  death — and  it  was  the  Magpie,  therefore, 
who  had  reason  to  fear  Larry  the  Bat  as  he  would  fear 
no  other  living  thing  on  earth.  And  it  was  upon  that 
which  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  counted — the  psychological  effect 
upon  the  Magpie  on  finding  himself  suddenly  face  to  face 
and  in  the  power  of  Larry  the  Bat,  with  the  unhallowed 
reputation  of  the  Gray  Seal,  that  did  not  stop  at  murder, 
to  discount  any  thought  in  the  Magpie's  mind  that  the 


84         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

choice  between  a  full  confession  and  death  was  an  idle 
threat  which  would  not  be  put  into  instant  execution. 

Yes;  it  was  simple  enough,  and  sure  enough — that 
part  of  it.  The  Magpie  would  tell  what  he  knew  under 
those  circumstances — and  tell  eagerly.  But  if,  after  all, 
the  Magpie  knew  nothing!  Jimmie  Dale  snarled  con- 
temptuously at  himself.  Childish  !  That,  of  course,  was 
possible — but  in  that  case  he  would  at  least  have  run  a 
false  lead  to  earth,  and  have  eliminated  the  Magpie  from 
any  further  consideration. 

Jimmie  Dak  took  out  a  make-up  box  from  the  opening 
in  the  wall,  and,  carrying  it  with  him  to  the  table,  propped 
up  a  small  mirror  against  a  collection  of  Smarlinghue's 
paint  tubes.  His  fingers  were  working  swiftly  now  with 
sure,  deft  touches,  supplying  to  his  face,  his  neck,  his 
hands  and  wrists,  not  the  unhealthy  pallor  of  Smarling- 
hue,  but  the  grimy,  unwashed,  dirty  appearance  of  Larry 
the  Bat.  It  was  the  toss  of  a  coin,  heads  or  tails,  whether 
the  Magpie  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  or  not.  The  Mag- 
pie knew  that  Silver  Mag  had  been  in  the  affair  thar 
night  when  Larry  the  Bat  was  discovered  to  be  the  Gray 
Seal;  the  Magpie  knew  that  Silver  Mag  was  a  pal  of 
Larry  the  Bat,  and,  therefore,  equally  with  the  Gray 
Seal,  the  underworld  had  passed  sentence  of  death  upon 
her — but  did  the  Magpie  know  that  Silver  Mag  was 
Marie  LaSalle,  any  more  than  he  knew  that  Larry  the 
Bat  was  Jimmie  Dale?  That  was  the  question — and  its 
answer  would  be  wrung  from  the  Magpie's  lips  to-night ! 

A  piece  of  wax  was  inserted  in  each  nostril,  and  be- 
hind the  lobes  of  his  ears,  and  under  his  lip.  Jimmie 
Dale  stared  into  the  mirror — the  vicious,  dissolute  face 
of  Larry  the  Bat  leered  back  at  him.  And  then,  return- 
ing abruptly  to  the  loosened  section  of  the  base-board, 
he  restored  the  make-up  box  to  its  hiding  place.  He 
reached  inside  again,  and  procured  a  pistol  and  flashlight 


LARRY  THE  BAT  85 

which  he  stowed  away  in  his  pockets ;  there  would  be  no 
fieed  to-night  for  that  belt  with  its  compact  little  kit  of 
ourglar's  tools ;  no  need  for  that  thin  metal  box  with  the 
^ray-coloured,  adhesive  paper  seals,  the  insignia  of  the 
Gray  Seal,  for  to-night  the  Gray  Seal  would  appear  in 
person.  No — wait!  That  collection  of  little  steel  pick- 
locks— and  a  jimmy!  He  would  need  those.  He  felt  for 
fchem  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  the  leather  girdle,  trans- 
/erred  them  to  the  pocket  of  his  ragged  trousers,  and 
clipped  the  base-board  back  into  place. 

And  now  he  stepped  to  the  gas-jet,  and  turned  out  the 
tight.  Then  the  roller  shade  was  raised,  the  French  win- 
dow silently  opened,  silently  closed — and  Larry  the  Bat, 
1  tugging  close  against  the  wall  of  the  building,  crept  to 
1he  fence,  and,  lifting  aside  a  loose  board,  passed  out  into 
}he  lane,  and  from  the  lane  to  an  empty  and  drtarily- 
Mghted  cross  street. 

There  was  no  "sanctuary"  now.  Who  in  the  under- 
world would  fail  to  recognise  Larry  the  Bat!  He  was 
..  »ut  in  the  open,  on  the  fringes  of  the  Bad  Lands,  where 
jecognition  was  to  be  feared  from  every  passer-by,  and 
<?here,  if  caught,  he  would  do  well  and  wisely  to  use 
u'is  own  automatic  upon  himself !  And  he  must  go  deeper 
(btill,  into  the  heart  of  gangland,  to  reach  that  room  in  the 
basement  beneath  Poker  Joe's  gambling  hell  where  the 
Ivlagpie  lived — or,  rather,  burrowed  himself  away  in 
those  hours  that  were  miserly  devoted  to  sleep. 

But  Jimmie  Dale  knew  his  East  Side  as  no  other  man 
in  New  York  knew  it ;  knew  it  as  a  man  whose  life  again 
and  again  had  depended  solely  upon  that  knowledge. 
By  lane  and  alley,  by  unfrequented  streets,  now  running, 
now  crouched  motionless  in  some  dark  corner  waiting 
for  footsteps  to  die  away  along1  the  pavement  before  he 
darted  across  the  street  in  front  of  him,  Jimmie  Dale 
threaded  his  way  through  the  East  Side,  as  through  the 


36         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

twistings  and  turning  of  some  maze,  puzzling,  grotesque 
and  intricate,  but  with  whose  secrets  notwithstanding  he 
was  intimately  familiar. 

When  he  paused  at  last,  it  was  in  a  backyard,  which 
he  had  entered  by  the  simple  expedient  of  climbing  the 
fence  from  the  lane  behind.  A  low  building  loomed  up 
before  him,  whose  windows  at  first  glance  were  dark, 
but  through  whose  carefully  closed  blinds  and  tightly 
drawn  shutters  might  still  be  remarked,  if  one  were  suf- 
ficiently inquisitive,  the  faint,  suffused  glow  of  lights 
from  within. 

Jimmie  Dale  scarcely  glanced  at  the  windows.  Pokes 
Joe's  at  this  hour — it  must  be  close  to  eleven  o'clock,  he 
calculated — would  be  just  about  settling  into  its  night's 
swing.  He  was  quite  well  aware  both  that  the  place  was 
lighted  and  that  there  were  by  now  perhaps  a  score 
of  gangland's  elite  already  at  the  tables;  and  that  the 
blinds  and  shades  were  closed  and  drawn  interested  him 
only  in  that  it  safeguarded  him  without  from  being  seen 
by  any  one  from  within! 

But  there  was  another  window  upon  which  Jimmie 
Dale  now  centred  his  entire  attention — a  narrow,  oblong 
window,  cellar-like,  just  on  a  level  with  the  ground — and 
here  there  was  neither  a  light  nor  a  drawn  shade.  He 
stole  across  the  yard,  and,  five  yards  from  the  wall  of 
the  house,  dropped  down  on  his  hands  and  knees,  and 
crawled  silently  forward.  Keeping  a  little  to  one  side, 
he  reached  the  window,  and  lay  there  listening  intently. 
There  was  no  sound,  save  a  low,  almost  inaudible  mur- 
mur of  voices  from  the  windows  above  him — nothing 
from  the  direction  of  that  dark,  oblong  window  that  he 
could  reach  out  and  touch  now.  The  Magpie  was  pre- 
sumably not  at  home! 

The  long,  slim,  tapering  fingers,  whose  nerves,  tingling 
Sensitively  at  the  tips,  were  as  eyes  to  Jimmie  Dale,  those 


LARRY  THE  BAT  87 

fingers  that,  to  the  Gray  Seal,  were  like  some  magical 
"open  sesame"  to  the  most  intricate  safes  and  vaults, 
felt  along  the  window  sill,  and,  from  the  sill,  made  a 
circuit  of  the  sash.  The  window,  he  found,  was  hinged 
at  one  side  and  opened  inward ;  and  now,  under  the  pres- 
sure of  his  steel  jimmy,  inserted  between  the  ledge  and 
the  lower  portion  of  the  frame,  it  began  to  yield. 

Lying  there  on  the  ground,  Jimmie  Dale,  his  head 
close  to  the  opening,  listened  with  strained  attention 
again.  He  had  not  made  much  noise,  scarcely  any — 
not  enough  even  to  have  aroused  the  Magpie  if,  say,  by 
any  chance,  the  Magpie  were  within  asleep.  The  sounds 
from  the  floor  above  seemed  to  be  louder  now,  to  reach 
him  more  distinctly,  but  from  the  basement  room  itself 
there  was  nothing,  no  sound  even  of  breathing. 

Satisfied  that  the  room  was  unoccupied,  Jimmie  Dale 
pushed  the  window  wide  open,  and  peered  in.  It  was 
like  looking  into  some  dark  cavernous  hole,  and  he  could 
not  distinguish  a  single  object.  Then  his  hand  slipped 
into  his  pocket  for  his  flashlight,  and  the  round,  white 
ray  shot  downward  and  around  the  place.  The  floor  of 
the  room  was  perhaps  five  feet  below  the  level  of  the 
window  sill;  to  the  left,  against  the  wall,  was  a  bed; 
there  was  a  chair,  a  table  sadly  in  need  of  repair,  a  few 
garments  hanging  from  nails  driven  haphazardly  into  the 
plaster,  and,  save  for  a  dirty  piece  of  carpet  on  the  floor, 
nothing  else.  The  flashlight  played  slowly  around  the 
room.  Opposite  the  window  was  the  door,  and  suspended 
from  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  was  a  single  incandescent 
lamp. 

With  a  sort  of  grim  nod  of  approval,  Jimmie  Dale 
snapped  off  his  flashlight,  and,  turning  around,  worked 
himself  in  through  the  window  feet  first,  and  dropped 
silently  to  the  floor.  He  had  only  to  wait  now  until  the 


88         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

Magpie  returned — whether  it  was  a  question  of  hours  or 
minutes 

Jimmie  Dale  made  his  way  to  the  chair,  and  sat  down 
— and  again  he  nodded  his  head  grimly.  It  was  very 
simple;  he  had  only  to  wait,  and  this  place,  this  burrow 
of  the  Magpie's,  could  not  have  been  improved  upon  for 
his  purpose.  It  was  eminently  suitable,  so  suitable  that 
there  seemed  something  ironical  in  the  fact  that  it  should 
have  been  the  Magpie  who  had  chosen  it.  One  could 
commit  murder  here,  and  none  would  be  the  wiser — and 
none  would  be  more  keenly  alive  to  that  than  the  Magpie 
himself!  A  threat  from  the  Gray  Seal  in  these  sur- 
roundings left  nothing  to  be  desired.  They  were  making 
too  much  noise  above  to  hear  anything  in  this  room  belotv 
the  ground,  and  the  little  window  afforded  an  instant 
means  of  escape  without  the  slightest  danger  of  disv 
covery.  Yes ;  the  Magpie,  not  being  a  fool,  would  ven  t 
thoroughly  appreciate  all  this. 

Time  passed.    It  was  a  nerve  racking  vigil  that  Jim 
mie  Dale  kept,  sitting  there  in  the  chair — waiting.     If 
was  so  dark  he  could  not  have  seen  his  hand  before  hi  \ 
face.     And  it  was  silent,  in  spite  of  that  queer  con? 
posite  sound  of  voices,  and  shuffling  feet,  and  the  oc 
casional  squeak  of  chair  legs  from  above — a  silence  tha; 
seemed  to  belong  to  this  miserable  hole  alone,  that  seemeO 
immune  from  all  extraneous  noises.    And  after  a  time,  ii 
a  curious  way,  the  silence  seemed  to  palpitate,  to  bea'* 
upon  the  ear-drums,  to  grow  almost  uncanny. 

His  lips  tightened  a  little,  and  he  smiled  commiserat 
ingly  at  himself.  His  nerves  were  getting  a  little  to< 
tautly  strung,  that  was  all;  he  was  listening  too  intent!) 
for  that  expected  step  upon  the  stair,  for  the  opening  of 
that  door  he  faced.  And  it  was  not  like  him  to  have  at 
attack  of  nerves — and  especially  in  view  of  the  fact  tha 
his  plan,  in  the  simplicity  of  its  execution,  did  cot 


LARRY  THE  BAT  89 

warrant  anxiety  for  its  success.  He  had  only  to  remain 
quiet  until  the  Magpie  entered  and  turned  on  the  light, 
then  clap  his  automatic  to  the  Magpie's  head — the  psy- 
chology of  fear  would  do  the  rest.  And  yet — what  was 
it?  As  the  minutes  dragged  along,  fight  it  as  he  would, 
a  distinct  depression,  a  panicky  sort  of  uneasiness,  was 
settling  down  upon  him.  The  darkness,  in  a  most  un- 
pleasant and  disconcerting  way,  seemed  to  be  full  of 
eeriness,  of  warnings. 

For  perhaps  ten  minutes  he  sat  there  in  the  chair, 
silent  and  motionless,  angry,  struggling  with  himself — 
but  his  disquietude  would  not  down ;  rather,  it  but  grew 
the  stronger,  until  it  took  the  form  of  imagining  that  he 
was  not  alone  in  the  room.  He  scowled  contemptuously 
at  himself.  There  was  another  psychology  than  that  of 
fear — the  psychology  of  suggestion.  That  silence,  palpi- 
tating in  his  ear-drums,  began  to  whisper:  "You  are  not 
alone  here — you  are  not  alone — you  are  not  alone." 

Was  that  a  sound  there  outside  the  door?  A  step 
cautiously  approaching?  He  leaned  forward  tensely. 
No — his  laugh  was  low,  short,  furious — no!  It  was  only 
from  above,  that  sound. 

Jimmie  Dale's  face  hardened.  It  was  childish,  this 
sensation  of  presence  in  the  room;  but  it  was  also  un- 
nerving. Why  should  so  unusual  a  thing  happen  to  him 
to-night  ?  Was  it  purely  over-w.rought  nerves,  due  to  the 
strain  of  the  peril  he  ran  as  Larry  the  Bat — or  was  it 
intuition?  Intuition  had  never  failed  him  yet.  Well, 
whatever  it  was,  he  would  put  a  stop  to  it.  He  was  here 
to-night  to  get  the  Magpie,  and  nothing  should  interfere 
with  that.  Nothing!  He  and  the  Magpie  would  square 
accounts  to-night — and  square  them  once  for  all ! 

Not  alone  here  in  the  Magpie's  den — eh?  His  flash- 
light streamed  out,  and  began  slowly  and  deliberately  to 
circle  the  room.  If  his  brain  was  so  restless  and  active 


90         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

that  it  must  indulge  in  fantasies,  it  could  at  least  be  di- 
verted into  another  channel  than Jimmie  Dale 

strained  forward  suddenly  in  his  chair.  That  was  a  pair 
of  boots  there  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  There  was  nothing 
strange  in  a  pair  of  boots,  but  these  boots  were  poised 
most  curiously  on  their  heels,  with  the  toes  pointing  up- 
ward. They  just  barely  protruded  from  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  which  accounted  for  his  not  having  been  able  to 
see  them  from  the  window  when  he  had  flashed  his  light 
around — he  could  not  see  the  upper  portions  of  them 
even  now.  And  then,  under  his  breath,  Jimmie  Dale 
jeered  at  himself  again.  True,  the  boots  were  in  a  most 
peculiar  position,  but  had  his  nerves  reached  the  state 
where  a  pair  of  boots  would  throw  him  into  a  panic! 
How  logical  for  some  one  to  be  hiding  there  under  the 
bed — with  his  feet  in  plain  view!  And  yet  what  held 
(the  boots  upright  like  that?  The  foot  of  the  bed  itself? 
Jammed  there,  perhaps?  Or 

"Damn  it!"  gritted  Jimmie  Dale.  "I'm  worse  than  a 
child  to-nigbt!" 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  stepped  across  the  room  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed — and  like  a  man  dazed,  his  flashlight  play- 
ing on  the  boots,  his  automatic  flung  forward  in  his  hand, 
he  stood  staring  downward,  following  his  flashlight's  ray 
with  his  eyes.  Was  he  mad!  Was  his  brain  now  play- 
ing him  some  hideous  trick !  The  boots  were  not  empty, 
he  could  see  a  man's  ankles,  the  bottoms  of  a  man's 
trousers;  but  the  ankles  and  the  trousers  seemed  utterly 
insignificant — on  the  sole  of  the  right  boot  was  a  dia- 
mond-shaped, gray-coloured,  paper  seal!  His  own  in- 
signia— the  insignia  of  the  Gray  Seal! 

For  an  instant  it  might  have  been,  he  stood  there 
'rigidly,  realising  in  a  sort  of  ghastly,  subconscious  way 
that  the  man  under  the  bed  made  no  movement,  made  no 
attempt  to  evade  discovery,  made  no  sound;  and  then 


LARRY  THE  BAT  91 

Jimmie  Dale  stooped  quickly,  and  raised  one  of  the 
other's  feet  a  few  inches  from  the  floor.  It  fell  back— 
a  dead  weight. 

Jimmie  Dale's  jaws  were  hard  clamped.  There  was 
devil's  work  here — some  of  the  Magpie's,  possibly.  Every 
faculty  alert  now,  Jimmie  Dale  was  quietly  lifting  aside 
the  small  iron  bed.  The  Magpie  was  no  fool !  By  under- 
world and  police  alike  it  would  be  accepted  without  ques- 
tion that  the  Gray  Seal  had  held  a  day  of  reckoning  in 
store  for  the  Magpie.  Had  the  Magpie  traded  on  that — 
to  get  rid  of  some  one  who  was  in  his  way,  this  out- 
stretched, inert  thing  on  the  floor,  and  lay  it  to  the  door 
of  the  Gray  Seal  ?  It  was  clever,  hellish  in  its  cunning. 
And  it  would  appear  plausible  enough.  The  Gray  Seal 
had  come  here,  say,  searching  for  the  Magpie,  and  in  the 
darkness  had  struck  another  down!  Yes,  the  Magpie 
could  get  away  with  that.  It  would  stand  to  reason  that 
the  Magpie  would  not  lure  a  victim  to  his  own  den, 
and 

A  low  cry  was  on  Jimmie  Dale's  lips.  The  bed  was 
moved  out  now,  and  he  was  stooping  over  a  man  whose 
head  was  gruesomely  battered  above  the  right  temple 
and  back  across  the  skull.  The  flashlight  wavered  in  his 
hand,  as  he  held  it  focussed  on  the  other's  face.  It  was 
the  Magpie — dead. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  BOND  ROBBERY 

IT  seemed  to  Jimmie  Dale  that,  in  the  darkness,  the 
room  was  full  of  unseen  devils  laughing  and  jeering 
derisively  at  him.  It  seemed  that  reality  did  not  exist; 
that  only  unreality  prevailed.  The  Magpie — dead!  It 
seemed  for  the  moment  that  he  had  utterly  lost  his  grip 
upon  himself;  that  mentally  he  was  being  tossed  help- 
lessly about,  the  sport  of  fate.  The  Magpie — dead!  It 
meant — what  did  it  mean  ?  He  must  think  now,  and  think 
quickly.  It  meant,  first  of  all,  that  any  hope  for  the 
Tocsin  which  he  had  built  upon  the  Magpie  was  shat- 
tered, gone  forever.  And  it  meant,  that  gray  seal  on  the 
sole  of  the  dead  man's  boot,  that  the  murder  had  been 
committed  with  even  greater  cunning  and  finesse,  and 
an  even  greater  security  for  the  murderer,  than  he  had 
attributed  to  the  Magpie  a  moment  since,  when  he  had 
thought  the  Magpie  the  instigator,  and  not  the  victim, 
of  the  crime. 

He  was  examining  the  wound,  searching  for  the  weapon 
— it  must  have  been  a  blunt  instrument  of  some  sort — 
with  which  the  blow,  or  blows,  had  been  struck.  There 
was  nothing.  The  Magpie  lay  there — dead.  That  was 
all. 

Mechanically  Jimmie  Dale  replaced  the  bed  in  its 
original  position  over  the  murdered  man,  and  stood 
staring  down  again  at  the  gray  seal  on  the  Magpie's  boot. 
It  was  not  why  the  Magpie  had  been  murdered,  it  was 

Q2 


THE  BOND  ROBBERY  9S 

who  had  murdered  him!  Once,  long,  long  ago,  almost 
at  the  outset  of  the  Gray  Seal's  career,  a  spurious  gray 
seal  had  been  used  before.  But  this  was  a  vastly  dif- 
ferent, and  far  more  significant  matter.  Then  it  had 
been  an  attempt  to  foist  the  identity  of  the  Gray 
Seal  upon  a  poor,  miserable  devil  in  order  to  se- 
cure a  reward — here  it  was  a  crime,  murder,  coolly, 
callously  laid  to  the  Gray  Seal,  that  the  guilty  man 
might  escape  without  a  breath  of  suspicion,  Just 
another  crime  credited  to  the  Gray  Seal !  No  one  would 
dispute  it ;  no  one  would  question  it ;  no  one  would  dream 
that  it  had  been  done  by  any  one  other  than  the  Gray 
Seal.  There  was  a  brutal  possibility  about  the  ingenuity 
of  the  man  who  had  struck  the  blow.  It  was  the  Magpie 
who  had  put  his  finger  upon  Larry  the  Bat  as  the  Gray 
Seal;  it  was  the  Magpie  who  had  tried  to  accomplish 
the  Gray  Seal's  death.  Would  it,  then,  occasion  even 
surprise  that  the  Magpie  should  be  found  murdered  in 
his  own  den  at  the  hands  of  the  Gray  Seal  ?  It  was  even 
his  own  argument,  the  very  reason  that  had  led  him  to 
assume  the  role  of  Larry  the  Bat,  and  had  brought  him 
here  to  the  Magpie's  to-night! 

Jimmie  Dale  bent  down  for  a  closer  inspection  of  the 
diamond-shaped  gray  seal  on  the  boot's  sole.  It  was 
not  one  of  his  own;  but  it  was  so  similar  that  it  would 
unquestionably  pass  muster.  The  red  crept  to  Jimmie 
Dale's  cheeks  and  burned  there,  as  a  sudden,  merciless 
anger  swept  upon  him.  Who  was  the  man  who  had  done 
this,  who  sheltered  himself  from  murder  behind  the  Gray 
Seal! 

He  laughed  low  and  bitterly.  Only  another  crime  at- 
tributed to  the  Gray  Seal !  It  would  not  smirch  the  Gray 
Seal  any — the  Gray  Seal  had  been  accused  of  worse  than 
this!  But  the  man  who  had  dared  to  place  that  gray 
seal  there  would  answer  for  it! 


94         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

He  was  still  laughing  in  that  low,  bitter  way,  as  he 
knelt  now,  and  took  out  his  pocketknife.  The  gray  seal, 
at  least,  would  not  be  found — he  was  lucky  there — he 

had  only  to  scrape  it  off,  and No — wait !  Would  it 

not  be  better  to  leave  it  there  ?  It  would  throw  the  mur- 
derer off  his  guard  if  he  believed  that  his  plan  had 
worked;  and  it  could  make  little  difference  to  the  Gray 
Seal's  record  to  be  held  guilty  of  another  murder — tem- 
porarily. Temporarily!  Yes,  that  was  it!  Here  was 
one  crime  of  which  the  Gray  Seal  would  be  vindicated, 
and  the  guilty  man  be 

" Jimmie  1" 

It  seemed  to  quiver,  low-breathed,  through  the  dark- 
ness— his  name.  His  name!  Was  he  bereft  of  all  his 
senses!  His  name!  Here  in  this  horrible  murder  hole! 
Was  he  indeed  mad  with  his  imaginings,  with  these 
voices  that  had  been  whispering,  and  laughing,  and  jeer- 
ing at  him  out  of  the  blackness !  And,  absurdly,  it  had 
seemed  this  time  that  it  was  the  Tocsin's  voice ! 

"Jimmie — quick !    On  the  floor  under  the  window !" 

He  whirled  like  a  flash.  Mistake !  Imaginings !  No ! 
It  was  the  Tocsin !  It  was  her  voice !  The  gleam  of  his 
flashlight  cut  the  black,  and,  leaping  across  the  room, 
played  upon  the  small,  narrow,  oblong  window — it  was 
from  there  the  voice  had  come.  But  it  was  only  black 
and  empty  there.  And  around  the  room  his  flashlight 
swept,  and  it  was  black  and  empty  there,  too — except  for 
a  square,  white  object  upon  the  floor  below  the  window. 
She  was  gone. 

And  it  was  like  a  half  sob  that  came  from  Jimmie 
Dale's  lips. 

"Gone!"  he  whispered  miserably.    "Gone!" 

Why  had  she  gone  like  that  ?  Why  had  she  not  waited 
— just  for  a  moment,  just  for  the  single  instant,  if  he 
could  have  had  no  more,  that  he  would  have  given  his 


THE  BOND  ROBBERY  96 

life  to  have?  And  the  answer  was  in  his  soul.  He  knew, 
and  he  knew  that  she,  too,  knew,  that  it  would  not  have 
been  a  moment  or  an  instant — that  he  would  never  have 
let  her  go  again.  And  to  follow  her?  He  shook  his 
head.  By  the  time  he  had  climbed  out  of  the  window, 
what  trace,  any  more  than  there  was  now,  would  there 
be  of  her!  She  was  gone — a  sort  of  finality  in  her  act, 
as  there  always  was,  that  left  nothing  to  be  done,  or 
said. 

But  the  note  !  That  white  thing  there  upon  the  floor ! 
He  crossed  the  room,  picked  it  up,  tore  it  open,  and, 
with  his  flashlight  upon  it,  began  to  read. 

"Jmimie — Jimmie "  It  was  scrawled  in  haste,  only 

a  few  lines.  His  eyes  travelled  rapidly  over  the  words, 
and  suddenly  his  breath  came  fast. 

"My  God!"  he  cried  out  sharply. 

As  though  he  could  not  have  read  aright,  he  read 
again;  disjointed  words  and  phrases  muttered  audibly: 

".  .  .  Afraid  not  in  time  .  .  .  hurry  .  .  .  this  after- 
noon .  .  .  the  Magpie  and  Virat  .  .  .  Kenleigh,  insur- 
ance broker  .  .  .  safe  in  Kenleigh's  house  .  .  .  ground 
floor — left  .  .  .  one  hundred  thousand  dollars .  .  .  bonds 
.  .  .  will  try  it  ...  Meighan  of  headquarters  .  .  .  half- 
past  one  at  Virat's  .  .  .  Gray  Seal  .  .  .  Larry  the  Bat 
...  if  dangerous,  keep  away  .  .  ." 

One  glance  around  the  room  Jimmie  Dale  gave  in- 
stinctively; and  then  he  was  crawling  through  the  win- 
dow, and,  outside,  regaining  his  feet,  he  darted  across 
the  yard,  and  out  into  the  lane.  Kenleigh,  the  insurance 
broker — he  repeated  the  address  she  had  given  in  the 
note  over  to  himself.  It  was  an  apartment  house  on 
Fifth  Avenue  near  Washington  Square. 

He  ran  on,  as  he  had  come,  through  lane  and  alley, 
working  his  way  out  of  the  Bad  Lands.  It  was  danger- 
ous, of  course,  in  any  case,  but  once  clear  of  that  section 


96         ADVENTURES  OF  J1MMIE  DALE 

of  the  city  which  houses  the  underworld,  his  risk  of  dis- 
covery was  greatly  minimised,  since,  though  familiar 
to  every  denizen  of  gangland,  Larry  the  Bat  was  natu- 
rally not  the  same  intimate  figure  in  the  more  law-abiding 
and  respectable  districts ;  and  he  should,  except  for  an 
extraordinary  piece  of  bad  luck,  pass  in  the  quarters 
he  was  now  heading  for  as  no  more  than  exactly  what 
his  appearance  proclaimed  him  to  be — a  disreputable  and 
seedy  vagrant. 

It  was  slow  work,  hurry  as  he  would,  doubling  and 
zigzagging  his  way  up  through  the  East  Side ;  discourag- 
ing, when  time  was  so  great  a  factor,  to  cover  three  and 
four  times  the  actual  distance  in  order  to  keep  to  the 
lanes  and  alleys  whose  shelter  he  dared  not  leave;  but 
he  was  spurred  on  now  by  a  sort  of  grim,  unholy  joy. 
He  knew  now  who  had  murdered  the  Magpie,  and  why ; 
he  knew  now  who  was  making  a  tool,  a  cat's-paw  of  the 
Gray  Seal;  he  knew  now  who  had  so  cynically  elected 
him,  if  caught,  as  a  substitute  for  the  other  to  the  electric 
chair.  It  was  Virat!  Frenchy  Virat,  the  suave,  sleek 
gambler,  confidence  man  and  crook!  Well,  the  game 
was  of  Virat's  choosing — and  they  would  play  it  out  now 
to  the  end,  Virat  and  the  Gray  Seal,  if  it  was  the  last  act 
of  his,  Jimmie  Dale's,  life !  It  was  only  a  question  now 
of  whether  or  not  Virat  had  completed  all  his  work,  of 
whether  there  was  yet  time  to  get  to  Kenleigh's. 

It  was  close  to  midnight,  as  Jimmie  Dale  came  out  on 
Washington  Square.  He  crossed  to  Waverly  Place,  and, 
on  the  point  of  starting  along  Fifth  Avenue,  drew  sud- 
denly back  around  the  corner.  A  man,  walking  rapidly, 
was  just  turning  into  Fifth  Avenue  from  the  opposite 
corner.  Jimmie  Dale  drew  in  his  breath  sharply.  He 
had  got  out  of  sight  just  in  time.  He  recognised  the 
quick,  springy  walk  of  the  other.  It  was  Meighan,  of 
Headquarters.  And  then  Jimmie  Dale  smiled  a  little 


THE  BOND  ROBBERY  97 

whimsically.  They  were  both  bound  for  the  same  place, 
he  and  Meighan,  of  Headquarters — Kenleigh's  apart- 
ment, that  was  a  little  way  further  on  there  along  the 
Avenue. 

A  short  distance  behind  the  other,  but  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street,  Jimmie  Dale  followed  the  detective. 
There  was  hardly  any  use  now  in  going  to  Kenleigh's, 
for,  if  the  detective  was  really  bound  for  there,  it  made 
his,  Jimmie  Dale's,  errand  useless — the  summoning  of 
the  Headquarters'  man  was  prima  facie  evidence  that  the 
robbery  had  already  been  committed.  And  yet  a  cer- 
tain grim  curiosity  remained.  Just  how  had  it  been  done  ? 
And,  besides,  she  had  said,  "half-past  one  at  Virat's,"  so 
there  was  time  to  spare.  The  distorted  lips  of  Larry  the 
Bat  thinned  ominously.  No ;  it  was  not  useless  even  now. 
He  had  a  very  strong  personal  interest  in  all  that  had 
taken  place — Virat  would  be  the  less  likely  to  slip  through 
his  ringers,  or  through  the  fingers  of  the  law,  for  the  in- 
formation that  the  scene  of  the  robbery  might  supply! 

Meighan  disappeared  suddenly  inside  an  apartment 
house,  which  Jimmie  Dale  recognised  as  a  rather  fash- 
ionable one,  devoted  exclusively  to  bachelors'  quarters. 
Jimmie  Dale  quickened  his  step,  walked  on  to  the  next 
corner,  crossed  the  street,  and  came  back  along  the  block. 
As  he  approached  the  apartment-house  entrance,  voices 
reached  him  from  the  vestibule,  and  then  he  heard  the 
closing  of  a  door. 

"Ground  floor — left,"  murmured  Larry  the  Bat  to  him- 
self. He  smiled  facetiously.  "Saves  an  interview  with 
the  janitor !" 

He  glanced  sharply  around  him  in  all  directions — and 
the  next  instant  was  inside  the  vestibule — and  in  an- 
other, without  a  sound,  was  crouched  close  against  the 
apartment  door.  A  delicate  little  steel  picklock  was 
working  now,  the  deft  fingers  manipulating  it  silently, 


98         ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

and  then  stealthily  he  pushed  the  door  open  a  crack. 
A  man's  voice,  agitated,  came  to  him  from  within : 

".  .  .  Perhaps  twenty  minutes,  I  don't  know — the 
length  of  time  it  took  you  to  get  here.  I  was  dining  out. 
I  'phoned  Headquarters  the  instant  I  came  in." 

Jimmie  Dale  pushed  the  door  further  open,  slipped 
through,  and  left  the  door  just  ajar  behind  him.  He 
was  in  the  hallway  of  a  very  small  apartment,  of  not 
more  than  two  or  three  rooms,  he  judged.  Diagonally 
ahead  of  him  a  light  streamed  out  from  an  open  door. 
He  stole  toward  this,  and,  pressed  close  against  the  jamb 
of  the  door,  peered  in. 

It  was  a  sort  of  sitting-room,  or  den,  cosily  furnished 
with  deep,  comfortable  lounging  chairs.  There  was  a 
flat-topped  desk  in  the  centre,  a  telephone  on  the  desk; 
and  at  the  rear  of  the  room  a  connecting  door,  leading 
presumably  to  the  bedroom,  was  open.  A  clean-shaven, 
dark-eyed  man  of  perhaps  thirty-five,  Kenleigh  obviously, 
was  pacing  nervously  up  and  down.  His  face  was  pale, 
his  hair  ruffled;  and,  in  his  distraction,  apparently,  he 
had  forgotten  to  remove  the  cloak  which  he  was  wearing 
over  his  evening  clothes.  In  the  far  corner  of  the  room, 
Meighan,  the  detective,  knelt  upon  the  floor  amidst  a 
scene  of  grotesque  disorder.  The  door  of  a  very  small 
safe  had  been  "souped,"  and  now  sagged  open.  Books 
and  papers  littered  the  floor,  and  were  strewn  over  a 
mattress  that,  evidently  dragged  from  the  inner  room, 
had  been  swaddled  around  the  safe  to  deaden  the  sound 
of  the  explosion. 

"You  don't  understand!"  Kenleigh  burst  out,  with  a 
groan.  "This  means  absolute  ruin  to  me!  A  hundred 
thousand  dollars  in  bonds — payable  to  bearer — and — and, 
God  help  me,  they  weren't  mine !" 

"Say" — Meighan,  still  busily  occupied  with  the  frac- 
tured safe,  spoke  gruffly,  though  not  unkindly,  over  his 


THE  BOND  ROBBERY  99 

shoulder — "I  understand  all  right,  but  don't  lose  your 
nerve,  Mr.  Kenleigh.  It  won't  get  you  anywhere,  and 
it  doesn't  follow  because  the  swag  is  gone  that  we  can't 
get  it  back.  I  know  the  guy  that  pulled  this  job." 

"You — what!"  Kenleigh,  his  face  lighting  up  as 
though  with  a  sudden  hope,  stepped  quickly  toward  the 
detective.  "What  did  you  say  ?  You  know  who  did  it !" 

"Don't  get  excited!"  advised  Meighan  coolly.  "Sure, 
I  know !  That  is,  it's  a  toss-up  between  one  of  two,  and 
that's  easy.  We'll  round  'em  both  up  before  morning, 
and  then  I  guess  it  won't  be  much  of  a  trick  to  pick  the 
winner.  They  won't  be  looking  for  trouble  as  quick  as 
this.  We'll  get  'em,  all  right.  It's  a  toss-up  between 
Mug  Garretty  and  the  Magpie." 

Kenleigh  was  staring  incredulously  at  the  detective. 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  he  gasped  out.    "I — I  don't " 

"I  daresay  you  don't."  Meighan  was  chuckling  now. 
"It's  like  this,  Mr.  Kenleigh.  A  crook's  like  any  one  else, 
like  an  artist,  say — you  get  to  know  'em,  get  to  spot  'em, 
especially  safe  workers,  from  certain  peculiarities  about 
their  work.  They  can't  any  more  help  it  than  stop  breath- 
ing. Here,  for  instance,  the  way  he "  Meighan 

stopped  suddenly.  He  had  been  pulling  the  mattress 
away  from  the  front  of  the  safe,  and  now,  with  a  sharp, 
exultant  exclamation,  he  stooped  quickly  and  picked  up 
a  small  object  from  the  floor.  He  held  it  out,  twirling 
it  between  thumb  and  forefinger,  for  Kenleigh's  inspec- 
tion— a  flashy  scarf  pin,  horseshoe-shaped,  of  blatantly 
imitation  diamonds. 

Kenleigh  shook  his  head  bewilderingly. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  you  recognise  it?"  he  ven- 
tured. 

"Recognise  it!"  Meighan  laughed  low,  and,  stepping 
quickly  past  Kenleigh  to  the  desk,  picked  up  the  tele- 
phone, and  called  Headquarters.  "Recognise  it!"  With 


100      ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  receiver  to  his  ear,  waiting  for  his  connection,  he 
turned  toward  Kenleigh.  "Why,  say,  walk  over  to  the 
Bowery  and  show  it  to  the  first  person  you  meet,  and 
he'd  call  the  turn.  Pretty,  isn't  it  ?  When  he's  dolled  up, 
he's  some — hello  I"  He  swung  around  to  the  telephone. 
"Headquarters?  .  .  .  Meighan  speaking  from  Kenleigh's 
apartment  .  .  .  Get  a  drag  out  for  the  Magpie  on  the 
jump  .  .  .  Eh?  .  .  .  Yes!  .  .  .  Left  his  visiting  card 
.  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Yes,  wound  a  mattress  around  the  box 
and  souped  it ;  his  scarf  pin  must  have  caught  in  the  tick- 
ing and  pulled  out.  .  .  .  Sure,  that's  the  one — the  horse- 
shoe— found  it  on  the  floor  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Yes,  the 
chances  are  ten  to  one  he  will,  it's  his  only  play  .  .  .  All 
right,  I'll  get  Mr.  Kenleigh's  story  meanwhile  .  .  .  I'll  be 
here  till  you  'phone  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  All  right!" 

Meighan  hung  up  the  receiver,  sat  down  in  a  chair, 
and  motioned  toward  another  that  was  close  alongside  the 
desk. 

"Turn  out  the  light,  Mr.  Kenleigh,"  he  said  abruptly; 
"and  sit  down  here." 

Kenleigh  looked  his  amazement. 

"Turn  out  the  light?"  he  repeated  perplexedly. 

"Yes,"  Meighan  nodded.    "And  at  once,  please." 

Obeying  mechanically,  Kenleigh  moved  toward  the 
electric-light  switch.  There  was  a  faint  click,  and  the 
apartment  was  in  darkness.  Came  then  the  sound  of 
Kenleigh  making  his  way  back  across  the  room,  and 
settling  himself  in  the  chair  beside  the  detective. 

"I — I  don't  quite  see,"  said  Kenleigh,  a  little  nervously. 

«T  }> 

"You  will  in  a  minute,"  interrupted  Meighan,  in  a  low 
voice.  "Don't  make  any  noise  now,  and  don't  speak  much 
above  a  whisper.  That  little  glass  stick  pin  is  worth 
twenty  years  to  the  Magpie.  See?  When  he  finds  that 
he  has  lost  it,  he'll  take  any  risk  to  make  sure  that  he 


THE  BOND  ROBBERY  101 

didn't  lose  it  here.  Get  the  idea?  It  would  plant  him 
for  keeps,  and  nobody  knows  it  any  better  than  he  does." 

"You  mean  he'll  come  back  here?"  whispered  Ken- 
leigh  eagerly. 

Meighan  chuckled. 

"Sure,  he'll  come  back  here — if  he  isn't  nabbed  before- 
hand !  It's  the  only  chance  he's  got.  Don't  you  worry, 
Mr.  Kenleigh.  He's  a  shy  bird,  is  the  Magpie,  or  he'd 
have  been  up  the  river  long  before  now,  but  we've  got  him 
coming  and  going  this  deal.  Now  then,  I  haven't  got 
the  details  from  you  yet.  What  time  this  evening  did  you 
get  back  here  before  you  went  out  to  dine?" 

It  was  quite  dark  now,  and  Jimmie  Dale  leaned  for- 
ward a  little  to  catch  the  words.  Both  men  were  speak- 
ing in  guarded  undertones. 

"About  six  o'clock,"  Kenleigh  answered.  "I  came 
straight  from  the  office.  I  put  the  bonds  in  that  safe 
there,  and  I  should  say  it  was  a  quarter  to  seven  by  the 
time  I  had  dressed  and  gone  out  again." 

"And,  say,  half  past  eleven  when  you  got  back.  So 
some  time  between  seven  o'clock  and  halfpast  eleven, 
Mr.  Magpie  got  into  the  courtyard,  put  a  jimmy  at  work 
on  the  bathroom  window  beyond  the  bedroom  there, 
and  got  busy — more  likely  to  be  nearer  eleven  than  seven 
•—he  would  have  been  back  before  now,  otherwise, 
eh?"  Meighan  seemed  to  be  communing  with  himself, 
rather  than  talking  to  Kenleigh.  "Wouldn't  make  such 
an  awful  noise — didn't  need  much  juice  on  that  safe—- 
pretty slick  with  the  smother  game — didn't  raise  an 
alarm,  anyway." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  Meighan  spoke 
again : 

"Let's  have  your  story,  Mr.  Kenleigh.  How  did  you 
come  to  bring  a  hundred  thousand  dollars*  worth  of 


102      ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

bonds  home  with  you?  And  how  did  the  Magpie  get 
onto  the  lay?" 

"I  don't  know,  unless  he  stood  in  with  the  oond  firm's 
messenger;  that's  the  only  way  in  which  I  could  account 
for  it,"  said  Kenleigh  huskily.  "And  I've  no  right  to 
say  that.  God  knows  I've  no  wish  to  get  an  innocent 
man  into  trouble.  I've  no  proof — but  I  can't  see  any 
other  solution."  Kenleigh's  voice  broke.  He  seemed 
to  steady  himself  with  an  effort.  "I'm  an  insurance 
broker  with  an  office  on  Wall  Street,  as  I  daresay  you 
know.  A  client  of  mine,  a  well-known  millionaire  here 
in  the  city,  wanted  a  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  the  Canadian  War  Loan  bonds,  but  for  business 
reasons,  he  has  a  large  German  connection,  he  did  not 
want  his  name  to  appear  in  the  transaction."  Kenleigh 
hesitated. 

"Sure!"  said  Meighan.    "I  see.    Wise  guy!    Go  on!" 

"He  commissioned  me  to  get  them  for  him."  Ken- 
leigh's voice  was  agitated  as  he  continued.  "I  tele- 
phoned Thorpe,  LeLand  and  Company,  the  brokers, 
where  I  was  personally  known,  explained  the  circum- 
stances, and  placed  the  order.  My  client  was  to  give  me 
a  check  for  the  amount  on  the  delivery  of  the  bonds  to 
him.  I  was  to  place  this  to  my  own  credit  in  the  bank, 
and  check  against  it  in  favour  of  Thorpe,  LeLand  and 
Company.  They  sent  the  bonds  over  to  my  office  by  a 
messenger  about  five  o'clock  this  afternoon.  It  was  too 
late  to  put  them  in  a  safe-deposit  vault.  I  locked  them 
first  in  my  office  safe,  and  then  I  grew  nervous  about 
them,  and  took  them  out  again." 

"'Anybody  see  you  do  that?"  queried  Meighan  quickly. 

"No;  I  don't  see  how  they  -:ould.  I've  only  a  small 
one-room  office,  and  there  was  nobody  there  but  myself." 

"And  so  they  kind  of  got  your  goat,  and  you  figured 


THE  BOND  ROBBERY  103 

the  safest  thing  to  do  was  to  bring  them  home  with  you  ?" 
suggested  Meighan. 

"Yes."  There  was  a  miserable  note  of  dejection  in 
Kenleigh's  voice.  "Yes;  that's  what  I  did.  And  I  put 
them  in  that  safe.  You  know  the  rest,  and — and,  oh,  my 
God,  what  am  I  to  do!  My  client,  naturally,  won't  pay 
for  what  he  does  not  receive,  and  I  owe  Thorpe,  LeLand 
and  Company  a  hundred  thousand  dollars."  He  laughed 
out  a  little  hysterically.  "A  hundred  thousand  dollars  I 
It  sounds  like  a  joke,  doesn't  it?  I've  got  a  little  money, 
all  I've  been  able  to  save  in  ten  years'  work,  a  few 
thousand.  I'm  ruined." 

"Don't  talk  so  loud !"  cautioned  Meighan.  He  whistled 
low  under  his  breath.  "You're  certainly  up  against  it, 
Mr.  Kenleigh,  but  you  buck  up!  We'll  get  'em.  And, 
anyway,  bonds  can  be  traced." 

"These  are  payable  to  bearer,"  said  Kenleigh  numbl}. 
"There  were  three  classes  of  bonds  in  this  issue — those 
payable  to  bearer;  those  registered  as  to  principal;  and 
those  fully  registered,  that  is  where  the  interest  is  paid 
by  government  check  instead  of  the  bonds  having  cou- 
pons. Naturally,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  the 
'payable-to-bearer'  bonds  that  my  client  wanted." 

"Well,  they're  numbered,  aren't  they?"  Meighan  re- 
turned encouragingly. 

"That's  poor  consolation  for  me,"  said  Kenleigh  bit- 
terly. "Suppose  some  of  them,  or  even  all  of  them,  were 
recovered  that  way  in  time — where  do  I  stand  to-morrow 
morning?" 

"I  guess  that's  right — if  the  Magpie  ever  got  a  chance 
to  hand  them  over  to  some  fence,"  admitted  Meighan. 
"The  fence  could  dispose  of  them  by  the  underground 
route  all  over  the  country  where  the  numbers  weren't 
staring  everybody  in  the  face.  Yes,  I  guess  they  could 
cash  in,  all  right.  Or  it  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  trick  for 


104       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

a  good  plate-worker  to  alter  a  number  or  two,  either—- 
the game's  big  enough.  But" — Meighan  chuckled  again— 
"he  hasn't  got  away  with  it  yet !" 

Kenleigh  made  no  answer. 

It  was  still  again  in  the  apartment.  Through  the 
darkness  only  a  few  feet  away  from  Jimmie  Dale,  the  two 
men  sat  there  silently,  waiting,  as  he  had  waited,  in  the 
darkness,  and  the  silence — for  the  Magpie.  There 
seemed  an  abhorrent,  gruesome  analogy  in  the  situa- 
tion— this  waiting  for  a  murdered  man  to  come ! 

The  minutes  dragged  by,  ten,  fifteen  of  them.  And 
now  Jimmie  Dale,  cramped  though  he  was,  dared  not 
shift  his  position;  the  movement  of  a  foot,  the  slightest 
stir  would  be  heard.  It  would  have*been  better  if  he  had 
gone  before  they  had  ceased  talking.  He  had  heard 
enough  long  before  then,  and  yet 

Suddenly,  startling,  like  the  clash  of  an  alarm  bell 
through  the  silence,  the  telephone  rang,  Jimmie  Dale 
heard  Meighan  fumble  for  the  receiver ;  and  then,  as  the 
other  spoke,  seizing  the  opportunity,  he  began  to  retreat 
stealthily  back  across  the  hallway  toward  the  vestibule 
door. 

"Hello  I"  Meighan's  voice  was  still  guarded.  "Yes — 
yes  .  .  .  What!"  His  voice  rose  suddenly  in  a  rasping 
cry.  "What's  that!  Dead!  Murdered!  Wait  a  minute ! 
Kenleigh,  they've  found  the  Magpie  murdered  in  his 
room !" 

"Murdered!"  cried  Kenleigh;  then,  frantically:  "But 
the  bonds,  the  bonds!  Did  they  find  the  bonds?  Ask 
them !  Tell  them  to  look !  The  bonds !  Are  the  bondi 
there?" 

"Hello!"  Meighan  was  evidently  speaking  into  the 
'phone  again.  "Any  trace  of  the  bonds?  .  .  .  What? 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes;  go  on,  I'm  listening!  .  .  .  Who?  .  .  „ 


THE  BOND  ROBBERY  105 

What?  .  .  .  Good  Lord!"  The  receiver  clicked  back 
on  its  hook. 

"What  is  it?  What  do  they  say?"  demanded  Ken- 
leigh  feverishly. 

"Mr.  Kenleigh,"  said  Meighan  soberly,  "there's  been  a 
Uttle  feud  on  in  the  underworld  for  the  last  few  months. 
It  came  to  a  showdown  to-night,  and  the  man  that  won 
played  in  luck — he's  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone,  I 
guess.  It  looks  damned  black  for  your  bonds,  I'm 
afraid." 

"They're — they're  gone?"  faltered  Kenleigh. 

"Yes — and  for  keeps,  I  guess,"  said  Meighan  gruffly. 
He  laughed  shortly,  mirthlessly.  "You  can  turn  the 
light  on  now ;  we'd  wait  a  long  time  here — for  the  Gray 


AT  HALFFAST  ONE 

LARRY  THE  BAT  closed  the  outer  door  noiselessly 
behind  him,  slipped  through  the  vestibule — and, 
an  instant  later,  was  slouching  along  Fifth  Avenue,  head- 
ing back  toward  Washington  Square.  His  hands  in  his 
ragged  pockets  clenched.  It  had  been  well  worked  out— 
with  a  devil's  ingenuity.  The  police  had  swallowed  the 
bait,  jumped  to  the  inevitable  conclusion  desired,  and 
credited  the  Gray  Seal  with  the  double  crime  of  theft 
and  murder  without  an  instant's  hesitation.  Well,  why 
shouldn't  they !  It  had  been  well  planned ;  it  was  natural 
enough !  Larry  the  Bat,  in  his  turn,  laughed,  mirthlessly. 
But  the  game  was  not  yet  played  out ! 

Through  the  by-ways,  lanes  and  alleys  of  the  under- 
world, Jimmie  Dale  once  more  threaded  his  way,  and 
finally,  mounting  the  dark  stairway  leading  upward  from 
the  side  entrance  of  a  small  house  just  off  Chatham 
Square,  he  let  himself  stealthily  into  a  room  on  the  first 
landing.  It  was  Virat  now,  and  this  was  where  Virat 
lived — a  locality  where  a  stranger  took  his  life  in  his  hand 
any  time!  Below  stairs  was  a  pseudo  tea-merchant's 
store — kept  by  a  Chinese  "hatchet"  man.  But  Lang 
Chang  had  not  been  in  evidence  when  he,  Jimmie  Dale, 
had  crept  up  the  stairs,  for  there  had  been  no  light  in 
the  store  windows. 

And  now  Jimmie  Dale's  flashlight  was  playing  around 
the  room.  Halfpast  one,  she  had  said.  It  could  not 

1 06 


AT  HALFPAST  ONE  107 

be  more  than  one  o'clock  as  yet.    There  was  ample  time 
to  search  for  the  bonds. 

He  began  to  move  noiselessly  around  the  room — a 
rather  ornately  furnished  combination  sitting  and  bed- 
room. "Keep  away,  if  dangerous,"  had  been  the  Toc- 
sin's caution.  He  smiled  grimly.  What  danger  could 
there  be  ?  He  had  only  to  face  one  at  a  time ;  the  Tocsin 
could  absolutely  be  depended  upon  to  see  to  that,  and  the 
advantage  of  surprise  was  with  him.  He  was  pulling  out 
the  drawer  of  a  bureau  now — and  now  his  hands  were 
searching  swiftly  under  the  mattress  of  the  bed.  It  was 
vitally  necessary  to  "secure  the  bonds.  Barring  that  little 
matter  of  the  numbers,  they  were  as  good  as  cash — and 
the  matter  of  numbers  would  not  trouble  Virat.  He  knew 
Virat,  and  he  had  known  Virat  very  well — but  not  so 
well  by  far  as  he  knew  him  now!  Virat  was  as  suave 
and  polished  a  gentleman  crook  as  the  country  possessed. 
Virat  was  the  sort  of  man  who,  after  the  uproar  had  died 
down,  would  have  the  nerve  and  address  to  take  up  his 
residence  in  some  little  out-of-the-way  place,  and  either 
dispose  of  as  many  of  the  bonds  at  a  time  as  he  dared 
to  those  he  would  cultivate  as  friends,  or  even 
have  the  audacity  to  secure  a  loan  on  a  modest  number 
of  them  from  the  local  bank  itself,  whose  conversance 
with  the  missing  numbers  might  be  expected  to  be  of  the 
haziest  description.  Also  Virat  would  be  careful  to  see 
that  his  offerings  were  not  made  at  such  dates  as  to  have 
the  interest  coupons  cause  him  any  inconvenience  by 
falling  due  within  twenty-four  hours !  It  would  be  quite 
simple — for  Virate!  In  six  months,  in  as  many  places, 
with  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  country  to  choose  from, 
Virat  could  quite  readily  dispose  of  the  lot ;  not  quite  at 
the  issue  price  perhaps  if  he  secured  loans,  but  still  at  a 
figure  that  would  be  very  profitable — for  Virat!  Or,  as 
Meighan  had  suggested,  with  the  aid  of  a  confederate  of 


108       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  right  sort,  the  change  of  a  figure — ah !  Jimmie  Dale, 
flat  upon  the  floor,  his  hand  stretched  in  under  the  wash- 
stand,  drew  out  a  short,  round,  heavy  object.  He  ex- 
amined this  attentively  for  a  second;  and  then,  his  face 
hardening,  he  slipped  it  into  his  coat  pocket. 

He  resumed  his  musings,  and  resumed  his  search 
through  the  room.  Virat  was  clever  enough  to  find 
means  of  disposing  of  the  bonds  in  some  fashion  or  other, 
and  too  clever  to  have  ever  committed  murder  for  them 
otherwise — there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  And,  after  all, 
what  difference  did  it  make  whatever  Virat's  method 
might  be !  It  was  extraneous,  immaterial.  Jimmie  Dale 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  vital  question  was — where 
were  the  bonds? 

It  was  a  strange  search  there  in  the  murderer's  room, 
the  flashlight  winking  and  flinging  its  little  gleams  of 
light  through  the  blackness;  a  strange  search,  thorough 
as  only  Jimmie  Dale  could  make  it — and  still  leave  no 
tell-tale  sign  behind  to  witness  that  a  single  object  in  the 
room  had  been  disturbed.  But  the  search  was  futile; 
and  at  the  end  Jimmie  Dale  smiled  whimsically. 

"The  process  of  elimination  again!"  he  muttered.  "I 
seem  to  be  obsessed  with  that  to-night.  Well,  not  being 
here,  there's  only  one  place  the  bonds  can  be.  The  pro- 
cess of  elimination  has  its  advantages."  The  flashlight 
circled  around  the  room,  and  held  for  a  moment  on  the 
electric-light  switch  near  the  door.  "It  must  be  after 
halfpast  one,"  said  Jimmie  Dale — and  suddenly  snapped 
off  his  light. 

There  came  a  faint  creaking  noise — some  one  was 
cautiously  mounting  the  stairs.  Jimmie  Dale  snatched 
his  automatic  from  his  pocket,  and  without  a  sound 
stole  forward  across  the  room  to  a  position  by  the  door. 
The  footsteps  were  on  the  landing  now.  The  doorknob 
was  tried;  the  door  began  to  open  slowly,  inch  by  inch. 


AT  HALFPAST  ONE  Iu9 

wider;  a  dark  form  slipped  through  into  the  room;  the 
door  was  closed  again — and  Jimmie  Dale,  reaching  for- 
ward, clapped  the  muzzle,  of  his  automatic  against  the 
other's  head.  But  it  was  Larry  the  Bat  who  spoke — in 
a  hoarse,  guttural  whisper. 

"Youse  let  a  peep  outer  youse,  an'  youse  goes  bye-bye 
for  keeps!  See?  Put  yer  hands  over  yer  head,  an' 
do  it — quick!" 

Jimmie  Dale's  left  hand  reached  out  and  switched  on 
the  light.  It  was  Meighan,  hands  elevated,  startled,  angry, 
who  stood  blinking  in  the  glare — and  then  a  low  cry  came 
from  the  man. 

"Larry  the  Bat — the  Gray  Seal !  So  it's  a  plant,  is  it ! 
That  damned  she-pal  of  yours  handed  it  to  me  good  over 
the  'phone!"  Meighan's  lips  tightened.  "And  where's 
Virat — did  you  kill  him,  too?" 

Jimmie  Dale's  hand  was  searching  swiftly  through  the 
detective's  clothes.  He  transferred  a  revolver  and  a  pair 
of  handcuffs  to  his  own  pockets. 

"I  had  ter  take  a  chance  on  de  light,"  said  Larry  the 
Bat  plaintively ;  "  'cause  I  had  ter  frisk  youse."  He 
turned  off  the  light  again.  "Sure,  she's  a  slick  one!" 
Larry  the  Bat,  his  left  hand  free  again,  turned  his  flash- 
light upon  the  detective.  "Youse  can  put  yer  flippers 
down  now.  Mabbe  she  staked  youse  ter  de  tip  dat  de 
bonds  was  here,  eh?" 

"Yes,  blast  you — both  of  you !"  growled  Meighan. 

"Well,  dey  ain't,"  said  Larry  the  Bat  coolly;  "but 
mabbe,  after  all,  she  wasn't  handin'  youse  no  steer." 

Meighan,  savage  at  his  own  helplessness,  snarled  his 
words. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Mabbe  nothin' — mabbe  a  whole  lot."  Larry  the  Bat 
dropped  his  voice  mysteriously.  "I  was  thinkin'  of 
pullin'  off  a  little  show  here,  an'  youse  have  de  luck  ter 


110       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

get  an  invite,  dat's  all.  Mabbe  I'll  hand  youse  somethin* 
on  a  gold  platter,  an*  mabbe  I'll  hand  youse — this!" 
The  automatic  was  shoved  significantly  an  inch  closer 
to  Meighan's  face.  "Youse  know  me !  Youse  know 
what'll  happen  if  youse  play  any  funny  tricks !  No  guy 
gets  de  Gray  Seal  alive — I  guess  youse  are  wise  ter  dat, 
ain't  youse?  Now  den,  over  youse  go  behind  dat  big 
chair  on  de  other  side  of  de  table !" 

Meighan,  a  puzzled  look  replacing  the  angry  expres- 
sion on  his  face,  blinked. 

"What's  the  lay  ?"  he  queried. 

"I'm  expectin'  company,"  grinned  Larry  the  Bat, 
"Youse  keeps  yer  yap  closed  till  youse  gets  de  cue- 
savvy?  Dat's  all!  If  youse  play  fair,  mabbe  youse'll 
get  a  look-in  on  de  rake-off;  if  youse  throws  me  down, 
the  first  shot  I  fires  won't  miss  youse.  Go  on  now,  get 
down  behind  dat  chair — quick!" 

Hesitantly,  following  the  flashlight's  directing  ray, 
covered  by  Jimmie  Dale's  automatic,  Meighan,  mutter- 
ing, made  his  way  across  the  room,  and  crouched  down 
behind  the  back  of  a  large  lounging  chair.  Jimmie  Dale 
leaned  nonchalantly  against  the  jamb  of  the  door,  the 
flashlight  holding  a  bead  upon  the  chair. 

"Youse'll  pardon  me  if  I  keeps  de  spot-light  on  youse/' 
drawled  Larry  the  Bat.  "Some  of  youse  dicks  ain't 
trustworthy." 

"Look  here !"  Meighan  burst  out.  "This  is  a  hell  of  a 
note!  What " 

"Youse  shut  yer  face!"  Jimmie  Dale's  voice  had 
grown  suddenly  cold  and  menacing — the  stairs  were 
creaking  again,  this  time  under  a  quick  tread.  "Listen! 
Say,  youse  don't  have  ter  wait  long  fer  de  curtain  ter 
go  up  on  de  act.  Don't  youse  make  a  sound !" 

The  doorknob  turned.  Jimmie  Dale  whipped  his  flash- 
light into  his  pocket — and  in  a  flash,  as  a  man  entered, 


AT  HALFPAST  ONE  111 

switched  on  the  light,  and  slammed  shut  the  door.  A 
dapper  individual,  wearing  tortoise-rimmed  glasses,  with 
black  moustache  and  goatee,  was  staring  into  the  muzzle 
of  Jimmie  Dale's  automatic. 

"Hello,  Frenchy!"  observed  Larry  the  Bat  suavely. 
"Feelin'  faint?" 

The  man's  face  had  gone  a  chalky  white.  He  looked 
wildly  around  him,  as  though  seeking  some  avenue  of 
escape. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  he  whispered.  "Larree  ze  Bat!  It  is 
ze  Gray  Seal !  It  is " 

"Aw,  cut  out  dat  parlay-voo  dope!"  Larry  the  Bat 
broke  in  curtly.  "Youse  don't  need  ter  pull  dat  stuff 
wid  me,  Virat  Talk  New  York,  see  ?" 

Virat  moistened  his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"What  do  you  want  here  ?"  he  asked  huskily. 

"Oh,  nothin'  much,"  said  Larry  the  Bat  airily.  "I 
thought  mabbe  youse  might  figure  dere  was  some  of  dein 
bonds  comin*  ter  me." 

"Bonds!  I  don't  know  anything  about  any  bonds," 
said  Virat,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about/ 

"You  don't — eh?"  inquired  Larry  the  Bat  ominously. 
"Well  den,  I'll  help  ter  put  youse  wise.  But  mabbe  I'd 
better  get  yer  gun  first,  eh?"  As  he  had  done  to 
Meighan,  he  removed  a  revolver  from  Virat's  pocket 
"T'anks!"  he  said.  He  pushed  Virat  with  his  revolver 
muzzle  toward  the  table,  and  forced  the  other  into  a 
chair.  He  sat  down  opposite  Virat,  and  smiled  un- 
pleasantly. "Now  den,  come  across!  Youse  croaked 
de  Magpie  ter-night!" 

"You're  dippy!"  sneered  Virat.  "I  haven't  seen  the 
Magpie  in  a  month." 

"An*  dat's  what  youse  did  it  wid."  Larry  the  Bat, 
as  though  he  had  not  heard  the  other's  denial,  reached 


112       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

into  his  pocket,  and  shoved  a  small,  murderous,  blood- 
stained blackjack,  the  leather-covered  piece  of  lead  pipe 
that  he  had  found  beneath  the  washstand,  suddenly 
across  the  table  under  Virat's  eyes. 

With  a  sharp  cry,  staring,  Virat  shrank  back. 

"Sure!  Now  youse're  talkin'!"  approved  Larry  the 
Bat  complacently.  "But  dat  ain't  all.  Say,  youse  have 
got  a  gall !  Youse  thought  youse'd  plant  me,  did  youse, 
wid  dat  gray  seal  on  de  Magpie's  boot !"  Jimmie  Dale's 
voice  was  deadly  cold  again.  "Well,  what  about  dat?" 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  mumbled  Virat. 

Jimmie  Dale's  smile  was  not  inviting. 

"I  told  youse  once,  didn't  I?  What  do  youse  sup- 
pose I  want!  If  I  got  ter  fall  fer  it,  I  want  some  of 
dem  bonds— dat's  what  I  want !" 

A  look  of  relief  spread  over  Virat's  face. 

"All  right,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I— that's— that's  fair. 
I — I'll  get  them  for  you."  He  started  up  from  his  chair, 
his  eyes  travelling  instinctively  toward  the  door. 

"Youse  sit  down!"  invited  Larry  the  Bat  coldly. 

"But — but  you  said — I — I  was  going  to  get  them,"  fal- 
tered Virat. 

"Sure !"  said  Larry  the  Bat.  "Dat's  de  idea !  An',  say, 
I'm  in  a  hurry.  Dey  ain't  over  dere,  Frenchy — try  nearer 
home!" 

Virat's  hands  trembled  as  he  unbuttoned  his  vest.  He 
reached  around  under  the  back  of  his  vest,  drew  out 
a  flat  package,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  He  began  to 
untie  the  cord. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  said  Larry  the  Bat  pleasantly.  "I 
ain't  in  so  much  of  a  hurry  now  dat  I  got  me  lamps  on 
'em!  Youse  can  count  'em  out  after — half  for  youse,  an* 
half  fer  me.  Tell  us  how  youse  fixed  de  lay." 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  Virat  laughed,  though  still 
a  little  nervously. 


AT  HALFPAST  ONE  113 

"Yes,  that's  square,"  he  agreed  eagerly.  "I — I  was 
afraid  you  were  going  to  pinch  them  all.  I'll  tell  you. 
It  was  easy.  I  piped  the  Magpie  off  to  a  chap  named 
Kenleigh  having  the  bonds  up  there  in  his  rooms  in  an 
apartment  house.  I  couldn't  crack  Kenleigh's  safe  my- 
self, but  it  was  nuts  for  the  Magpie — see?  He  cracked 
the  safe.  I  was  with  him,  and  I  copped  that  near-dia- 
mond pin  of  his,  and  left  it  there  so  there  wouldn't  be 
any  guessing  as  to  who  pulled  off  the  job,  and  then  we 
beat  it  back  to  his  place  to  divide — and  I  beaned  him.  I 
wasn't  looking  into  any  gun  then,  and  handing  over  fifty 
thousand — and  besides,  with  the  Magpie  out  of  the  way, 
I  had  some  alibi."  Virat  laughed  shortly.  "That's 
where  you  come  in.  Everybody  knew  you  had  it  in  for 
him.  All  I  had  to  do  was — well,  what  you  said  I  did. 
If  you  hadn't  tumbled  to  it,  and  I'm  damned  if  I  can 
see  how  you  did,  there  wasn't  anything  to  it  at  all.  It 
was  open  and  shut  that  the  Magpie  pinched  the  swag, 
and  that  you  croaked  him  and  beat  it  with  the  bonds." 

"Say,"  said  Larry  the  Bat  admiringly,  "youse're  some 
slick  gazabo,  youse  are!  But  how  did  youse  know  dat 
guy  Kenleigh  had  de  goods  ?" 

"That's  none  of  your  business,  is  it?"  replied  Virat, 
a  little  defiantly.  "You're  getting  yours  now." 

Larry  the  Bat  appeared  to  ponder  the  other's  words, 
a  curious  smile  on  his  lips. 

"Well,  mabbe  it  ain't,"  he  admitted.  "Let  it  go  any- 
way, an'  split  the  swag.  Count  'em  out !" 

Virat  picked  up  the  package  again,  and  began  to  un- 
tie it — and  again  Jimmie  Dale's  hand  slipped  into  his 
pocket.  And  then,  quick  as  the  winking  of  an  eye,  as 
Virat's  hands  came  together  over  a  knot,  Jimmie  Dale 
leaned  across  the  table,  there  was  a  click,  and  the  steel 
handcuffs  were  locked  on  the  other's  wrists. 

There  was  a  scream  of  fury,  an  oath  from  Virat. 


114       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"Dat's  yer  cue,  Meighan,"  called  Larry  the  Bat  calmly. 
"Come  out  an'  take  a  look  at  him!" 

A  ghastly  pallor  spreading  over  his  face,  staring  like 
a  demented  man,  as  Meighan,  rising  from  behind  the 
lounging  chair,  advanced  toward  the  table,  Virat  huddled 
back  in  his  seat. 

"Know  him?"  inquired  Larry  the  Bat. 

The  detective  bent  sharply  forward. 

"My  god !"  he  exclaimed.    "It's— no,  it  can't " 

"Mabbe,"  murmured  Larry  the  Bat,  "youse'd  know  him 
better  when  he  ain't  dolled  up."  He  swept  the  glasses 
from  Virat's  nose,  and  wrenched  away  the  black  mous- 
tache and  goatee. 

"Kenleigh!"  gasped  Meighan. 

"Mabbe,"  said  Larry  the  Bat,  with  a  twisted  grin, 
"dere's  somethin'  he  may  have  fergotten  ter  wise  youse 
up  on,  but  he  didn't  mean  ter  hide  nothin*  in  his  con- 
fession— did  youse,  Frenchy?  An'  mabbe  dere's  one  or 
two  other  things  in  de  years  he's  been  playin'  Kenleigh 
dat  he'll  tell  youse  about,  if  youse  ask  him — nice  and 
pleasant-like !" 

Larry  the  Bat  edged  around  the  table,  and,  covering 
Meighan  with  his  revolver,  backed  to  the  door. 

"Well,  so  long,  Meighan!"  he  said  softly,  from  the 
threshold.  "T'ink  of  me  when  dey  pins  de  medal  on  yer 
breast  f er  dis !" 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  laid  Meighan's  revolver  down 
on  the  floor  of  the  room,  and  locked  the  door  on  the 
outside  with  a  pick-lock,  and  went  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  IX 
'WARE  THE  WOLF 

JIMMIE  DALE'S  fingers,  in  the  darkness,  were  deftly 
tying  around  his  body  the  leather  girdle  with  its 
finely-tempered,  compact  kit  of  burglar's  tools.  It  was 
strange,  this  note  of  hers  to-night — strange,  even,  where 
all  the  notes  that  she  had  ever  written  had  been  strange ! 
It  had  been  left  half  an  hour  ago  at  the  door  of  the  St. 
James  Club — and  he  had  hastened  here  to  the  Sanctuary. 
It  was  curiously  strange !  Three  nights  ago,  he  had  seen 
Frenchy  Virat  safely  in  the  hands  of  the  police,  and 
Frenchy  Virat  was  still  safely  in  police  custody — but 
he,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  not  yet  done  with  Frenchy  Virat, 
it  seemed!  The  note  had  made  that  quite  clear.  There 
was  still  the  Wolf;  and  it  was  the  Wolf  that  filled  this 
anxious,  hurried  word  from  her  to-night. 

The  Wolf!  He  knew  the  Wolf  well — as  Larry  the 
Bat  in  the  old  days  he  had  even  known  the  other  person- 
ally— as  Smarlinghue  of  to-day  he  had  progressed  that 
far  into  the  inner  ring  of  the  underworld  again  as  to  be 
on  nodding  terms  with  the  Wolf.  The  man  was  a  power 
in  the  underworld — and  a  devil  in  human  guise.  In  a 
career  extending  back  over  many  years,  a  career  in  which 
no  single  crime  in  the  decalogue  had  been  slighted,  the 
Wolf  had  successfully  managed  to  evade  the  clutches  of 
the  law  until  his  name  had  become  a  synonym  for  craft 
and  cunning  in  the  Bad  Lands,  and  the  man  himself 
the  object  of  the  vicious  hero-worship  of  that  sordid 

US 


,116       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

world  where  murder  cradled  and  foul  things  lived.  The 
police  had  marked  the  man,  marked  him  a  score  of  times ; 
in  their  records  a  hundred  unsolved  crimes  pointed  to  the 
Wolf — but  they  had  never  "got"  him — always  the  threacj 
of  evidence  that  seemed  to  lead  to  that  queer  house  near 
Chatham  Square  was  broken  on  the  way — and  the  Wolf> 
with  steadily  increasing  prestige  and  authority  in  gang- 
land, laughed  in  the  faces  of  the  police,  and  here  and  there 
a  plain-clothes  man,  over-zealous  perhaps,  died. 

That  was  the  Wolf — but  that  was  not  all!  Jimmie 
Dale's  face  hardened  into  grim  lines,  as  he  lifted  out 
from  under  the  baseboard  "Smarlinghue's"  frayed  and 
seedy  coat,  and  put  it  on.  Between  the  Wolf  and  the 
Gray  Seal  there  was  now  a  personal  feud.  Above  the 
reek  of  those  whisperings  in  the  underworld,  above  that 
muttered  slogan,  ''death  to  the  Gray  Seal"  that  men 
flung  at  each  other  from  the  twisted  corners  of  their 
mouths,  the  Wolf  had  snarled,  and  the  underworld  had 
listened,  and  the  underworld  was  waiting  now — the  Wolf 
had  pledged  himself  to  rid  the  Bad  Lands  of  the  terror 
that  had  crept  upon  it.  He  had  sworn,  and  staked  his 
reputation  on  his  pledge,  to  "get"  Larry  the  Bat,  alias 
the  Gray  Seal — and  in  the  eyes  of  the  underworld,  as  the 
underworld  sighed  with  relief,  it  was  already  accom- 
plished, for  the  Wolf  had  never  failed. 

Jimmie  Dale  stooped  down,  felt  in  under  the  base- 
board again,  and  took  out  a  little  make-up  box.  The 
Wolf's  incentive  was  not  one  of  philanthropy  toward  his 
fellow  denizens  of  crimeland,  whose  ranks  had  been 
thinned  by  those  who,  thanks  to  the  Gray  Seal,  had  gone 
"up  the  river,"  some  of  them,  many  of  them,  to  that  room 
in  Sing  Sing's  death-house  from  which  none  ever  re- 
turned alive ;  nor  was  it,  to  give  the  Wolf  his  due,  through 
a  personal  fear  that  his  own  career  might  end,  as  those 


'WARE  THE  WOLF  117 

others'  had,  at  the  hands  of  the  Gray  Seal;  nor,  again, 
was  it  through  any  tardy,  eleventh-hour  conversion,  any 
belated  edging  toward  the  way  of  grace  that  found  ex- 
pression in  a  desire  to  array  himself  on  the  side  of  those 
representing  the  forces  of  law  and  order.  It  was  none 
of  these  things  that  actuated  the  Wolf — it  was  Frenchy 
Virat,  alias  one  Kenleigh,  who  was  awaiting  trial  in  the 
Tombs.  Frenchy  Virat  was  the  Wolf's  bosom  friend! 

The  wheezy,  air-choked  gas-jet  spluttered  into  a  blue 
flame,  as  Jimmie  Dale  lighted  it.  It  disclosed,  in  shadow, 
the  battered  easel,  the  dirty  canvases,  some  finished,  some 
but  tentative  daubs,  that  banked  the  wall  in  disorder 
opposite  the  small  French  window,  whose  shade  was 
closely  drawn ;  it  crept  dimly  into  the  far  corner  of  the 
room  and  disclosed  the  cheap  cot,  unmade,  the  blanket 
upon  it  rumpled  in  negligent  untidiness;  it  fell  full, 
such  as  its  fulness  was,  upon  the  rickety  table  that  was 
littered  with  unwashed  dishes  and  sticky  paint  tubes, 
^nd,  at  one  end  of  the  table,  on  an  evening  newspaper, 
and,  beside  the  newspaper,  the  Tocsin's  note  and  a  news- 
paper clipping. 

Jimmie  Dale  sat  down  at  the  table,  brushed  the  dishes 
and  paint  tubes  together  into  a  heap,  and  propped  up 
against  them  a  cracked  and  streaked  mirror.  He  opened 
his  make-up  box,  and  as,  swiftly,  with  masterly  touch, 
the  grey,  sickly  pallor  that  was  Smarlinghue's  trans- 
formed his  face,  and  as,  from  little  distorting  pieces  of 
wax,  there  came  into  being  the  hollow  cheeks,  the  thin, 
extended  lips,  the  widened  nostrils,  he  kept  glancing  at 
the  newspaper,  reading  again  an  article  that  was  set,  on 
the  front  page,  under  heavy  type  captions — the  article 
which  was  identical  with  the  clipping,  and  which  latter 
the  Tocsin  had  enclosed  with  her  note,  lest  he  should 
not  have  seen  the  original  himself. 


118 

UNIDENTIFIED  BODY  FOUND  UNDER 
PIER  IN  NORTH  RIVER 


VICTIM  OF  FOUL  PLAY 


FACE   IS   MUTILATED   BEYOND 
RECOGNITION 

The  details  as  set  forth  in  the  "story"  were  gruesomely 
interesting  enough  from  a  morbid  point  of  view;  but 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  police  they  were  both 
meagre  and  unsatisfactory.  It  was  murder  unquestion- 
ably— and  murder  of  a  most  brutal  character.  The  head- 
line had  epitomised  it — the  face  was  mutilated  beyond 
recognition.  Every  belonging,  obviously  with  the  design 
to  prevent,  or  at  least  retard,  identification,  had  been 
stripped  from  the  body.  One  point  alone  appeared  to  be 
established,  and  that,  if  anything,  but  added  to  the  mys- 
tery which  surrounded  the  crime.  According  to  medical 
opinion,  the  murder  had  been  committed  but  a  very  short 
time  before  the  body  was  discovered;  and,  since  the 
victim  had  been  found  at  three  o'clock  that  afternoon, 
the  body  must  have  been  thrown  into  the  water  in  broad 
daylight. 

Jimmie  Dale  worked  on — his  fingers  seeming  to  fly 
with  ever- increasing  speed.  There  was  no  time  to  lose; 
every  minute,  every  second,  counted  against  him.  If  he 
could  only  have  acted  on  the  instant,  as  Jimmie  Dale, 
when  he  had  received  the  note  at  the  club !  But  he  had 
not  had  that  leather  girdle  at  the  club — no  blue-steel 
tools  that  would  be  needed,  no  mask,  and  he  had  not 
been  armed — everything  had  been  here  in  the  Sanctuary. 
And,  once  here,  since  he  had  been  forced  to  lose  that 
much  time,  he  had  risked  a  little  more,  precious  as  the 


'WARE  THE  WOLF  110 

moments  were,  for  the  advantages,  the  safety,  the  free- 
dom of  movement,  afforded  by  the  character  of  Smar- 
linghue.  However,  it  was  still  but  barely  eleven  o'clock, 
and  the  chances  were  that  the  Wolf  would  hardly  have 
deemed  it  late  enough  as  yet  to  set  to  work.  On  the 
other  hand — well,  on  the  other  hand,  if  the  Wolf  had 
proved  the  early  bird,  then,  perhaps,  he  and  the  Wolf 
would  have,  in  another  place  and  time  to-night,  a  more 
personal  reckoning  than  was  anticipated  in  the  Tocsin's 
plan! 

His  eyes  picked  up  snatches  of  her  note,  as  they 
skimmed  it  swiftly  again. 

".  .  .  The  Wolf  .  .  .  old  storehouse  on  river  front 
.  .  .  through  trap  into  the  water  .  .  .  old  Webb  .  .  . 
Spider  Webb  .  .  .  ten  thousand  dollar  Moorcliffe  jewel 
robbery  .  .  .  cash  box  .  .  .  safe  behind  panelling  in  bed- 
room directly  opposite  the  door  .  .  .  false  bottom  .  .  . 
afraid  of  the  Wolf  .  .  .  last  few  days  .  .  .  unfinished 
.  .  .  Wolf  does  not  know  .  .  .  man  and  wife  upstairs 
.  .  .  old  couple  .  .  .  keep  house  for  the  Spider  ...  no 
suspicion  that  anything  has  happened  .  .  ."  And  then,  at 
the  end,  a  more  personal,  intimate  touch:  "Jimmie,  it  is 
not  to  save  some  one  else  that  I  have  written  this  to-night, 
for  that  is  now  too  late — it  is  to  save  you.  The  Wolf  is 
dangerous  and  I  am  afraid.  You  know  that  he  has  sworn 
to  trap  you.  He  is  cunning,  Jimmie — do  not  underesti- 
mate him.  That  is  why  I  have  written  this — if  you  suc- 
ceed to-night  .  .  ." 

Jimmie  Dale's  fingers  were  tearing  the  note  now  into  in- 
finitesimal shreds,  and,  with  it,  the  newspaper  clipping. 
The  newspaper  itself  he  crumpled  up  and  tossed  into  the 
corner.  He  crossed  the  room,  replaced  the  make-up  box 
in  its  hiding  place,  put  back  the  movable  section  of  the 
base-board,  turned  out  the  light — and  a  minute  later, 
Smarlinghue,  unkempt,  stoop-shouldered,  let  himself  out, 


120       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

not  by  the  French  window  through  which  he  had  en- 
tered stealthily  in  the  evening  clothes  of  Jimmie  Dale, 
but  unconcernedly,  as  was  the  right  of  any  tenant,  by 
the  door  that  opened  on  the  ground-floor  passage  of  the 
tenement,  and  shuffled  down  the  street. 

The  Wolf — and  Spider  Webb — and  Larry  the  Bat! 
It  was  a  curious  trio!  Smarlinghue's  lips,  perhaps  be- 
cause the  wax  beneath  was  not  yet  moulded  comfortably 
into  place,  twitched  queerly.  One  of  them  was  dead — 
the  Spider.  There  remained — the  Wolf  and  Larry  the 
Bat!  No,  he  did  not  underestimate  the  Wolf — only  a 
fool,  and  a  blinded  fool,  would  do  that.  The  Wolf  had 
shown  his  fangs  in  deadly  enough  fashion  that  morning 
— with  a  brutal  murder,  craftily  planned,  and  hellishly 
executed!  And  yet  the  Wolf  was  quite  hopelessly  illogi- 
cal !  It  was  no  secret  in  the  underworld  that  the  Wolf 
and  Spider  Webb  had  long  worked  together,  and  that 
the  Spider  was  a  close  friend  of  the  Wolf.  Yet  the 
Wolf  had  murdered  the  Spider,  and  at  the  same  time 
had  found  a  basis  for  his  oath  to  end  Larry  the  Bat,  be- 
cause Larry  the  Bat  had  been  instrumental  in  handing 
over  to  the  police  a  friend  of  the  Wolf ! 

Smarlinghue  slouched  on  along  the  street,  but  the 
"slouch"  covered  the  ground  at  an  amazing  rate  of  speed. 
He  had  not  far  to  go — but  neither  had  he  a  moment 
that  he  dared  lose.  Spider  Webb's  old  antique  shop,  but 
a  few  blocks  away,  nestled  in  a  squalid  little  courtyard 
just  west  of  the  Bowery,  and  on  the  same  side  of  the 
Bowery  as  the  Sanctuary. 

Some  one,  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  street,  flung  him  a 
good-night.  Smarlinghue  mumbled  his  acknowledgment 
from  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  hurried  along. 

His  thoughts  were  still  on  the  Wolf.  He  had  not 
exhausted  the  sum  of  the  Wolf's  digressions  from  the 
realms  of  the  logical !  In  the  old  days  there  had  been  an 


'WARE  THE  WOLF  121 

intimacy  even  between  the  Wolf  and  Larry  the  Bat 
That  underground  passage  from  the  shed  into  that 
queer  house  near  Chatham  Square,  for  instance — which 
was  known  only  to  the  most  intimate !  But  perhaps  the 
Wolf  had  forgotten,  or  perhaps  even  the  Wolf  had 
never  known  he  had  been  on  quite  such  intimate  terms 
with — Larry  the  Bat. 

Jimmie  Dale  glanced  behind  him.  There  was  no  one 
in  sight  for  the  moment.  He  was  at  the  corner  of  a 
lane  now — and  he  chose  the  lane.  It  was  a  shorter,  and  a 
safer  route.  It  bordered  on  the  rear  of  the  courtyard 
which  was  his  objective,  and  obviated  the  necessity  of 
attempting  to  steal  down  past  the  side  of  "The  Yellow 
Lantern"  unnoticed.  No,  he  did  not  underestimate  the 

Wolf,  but  if  he  had  luck  to-night !  He  shrugged  his 

shoulders  in  a  sort  of  grim  whimsicality. 

His  mind  reverted  to  the  Spider  now — Spider  Webb. 
Facetious,  in  a  way,  the  name  was!  Webb — Spider 
WTebb!  And  yet  the  man  had  come  by  it  honestly,  or 
dishonestly,  enough!  The  old  antique  shop  for  years 
had  covered  dealings  that  were  shabbier  than  the  shab- 
biest of  its  antiques!  It  was  probable  that  more  stolen 
goods  had  found  Spider  Webb's  a  clearing  house  than 
had  any  other  Mecca  of  the  crooks  in  New  York.  It 
was 'probable,  too,  that  it  had  known  more  police  raids 
than  any  of  its  competitors — but,  unlike  many  of  its 
competitors,  nothing  but  what  indubitably  belonged  there 
had  ever  been  found.  But  then  again,  the  Spider  was  a 
specialist — he  specialised  in  small  articles,  particularly 
jewelry — no  one  in  the  Bad  Lands  who  knew  his  way 
about  would  ever  have  dreamed  of  going  to  the  Spider 
with  anything  else!  Nor  was  the  Spider  without  justi- 
fication in  thus  restricting  his  operations.  The  Spider 
had  always  managed  to  hide  his  questionable  wares,  until 
he  was  able  to  dispose  of  them  and  they  passed  again 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

out  of  his  possession,  with  an  ingenuity  that  had  baffled, 
enraged,  and  mortified  the  police — and  commanded  the 
enthusiastic  confidence  and  admiration  of  the  under- 
world! But  this  was,  for  the  most  part,  past  history, 
and  of  the  days  gone  by,  for  the  Spider  now  had  grown 
old — had  grown  to  be  an  old  man — for  it  had  begun  of 
late  to  be  whispered  that  he  talked  more  than  he  had 
been  wont  to  talk  in  the  days  of  his  prime,  that  he  was 
not  as  safe  as  he  had  been,  and  in  consequence  his  trade 
of  late  had  begun  to  drift  away  from  him. 

And  herein  lay  the  secret  of  the  old  man's  murder 
at  the  hands  of  the  Wolf.  The  Tocsin's  note  had  not 
failed  to  lay  stress  on  this.  No  one  probably,  through  a 
career  of  half  a  score  of  years,  knew  more  about  the 
Wolf  and  the  Wolf's  doings  than  did  the  Spider.  Rightly 
or  wrongly,  the  word  was  out  that  the  old  man,  in  his 
garrulity,  was  not  safe — and  the  Wolf  was  inviting  no 
chances  where  the  electric  chair  was  concerned,  that  was 
all!  The  old  man  would  henceforth  be  perfectly  safe, 
as  far  as  any  talking  went!  It  was  brutal,  hideous — 
but  it  was  the  Wolf !  Also,  the  Wolf,  tritely  expressed, 
had  proposed  to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  The  old 
man's  trade  was  not  entirely  gone.  Yesterday,  an  old- 
time  lag,  who  had  dealt  with  the  Spider  for  many  years, 
and  who  had  "pulled"  the  Moorcliffe  job — the  robbery 
of  a  summer  mansion  a  few  miles  up  the  Hudson — had 
"fenced"  the  proceeds  at  the  antique  shop.  Ten  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  first-water  sparklers!  Everybody  that 
was  anybody  in  gangland  knew  this.  The  Wolf  had  seen 
the  psychological  and  profitable  moment  to  strike — again 
that  was  all !  And  again  it  was  diabolical — but  again  it 
was  the  Wolf ! 

Jimmie  Dale's  face  was  set  like  flint.  And  this  was  the 
man  who  had  sworn  that  he  would  "get"  the  Gray  Seal ! 
A  sort  of  unholy,  passionate  joy  surged  upon  him.  Well, 


'WARE  THE  WOLF 

they  would  see,  he  and  the  Wolf — and  perhaps  to-night! 
It  was  certain  that  the  Wolf  would  act  alone.  The  man's 
devilish  cunning  showed  itself  in  having  inveigled  the 
old  man  to  that  storehouse  on  the  river  bank,  rather  than 
to  have  killed  the  Spider  in  the  Spider's  own  home.  It 
might  be  days  perhaps  before  the  Spider's  absence — 
for  the  Spider's  peculiar  life  had  demanded  mysterious 
absences  before — was  even  commented  upon,  and  the 
Wolf  had  taken  pains  to  see  that  the  body  was  not,  im- 
mediately at  least,  identified.  It  was  very  simple — 
from  the  Wolf's  standpoint!  The  Wolf  was  counting  it 
none  too  easy  a  task  evidently  to  find  the  Spider's  in- 
genious and  storied  hiding  place,  and  this  would  give  him 
a  night,  two  nights,  or  more,  in  which,  undisturbed,  he 
might  prosecute  his  search.  And,  as  he  had  committed 
the  murder  alone,  so  he  would  continue  to  work  alone, 
for  there  were  those  even  in  gangland,  and  in  spite  of  the 
Wolf's  acknowledged  leadership,  who  would  not  look 
with  friendly  eyes  upon  the  Wolf  for  this ! 

It  was  black  here  in  the  lane,  and  now,  possibly  a 
distance  of  a  hundred  yards  up  from  the  street,  Jimmie 
Dale's  fingers,  feeling  along  the  left-hand  fence,  came 
upon  the  latch  of  a  small,  narrow  door — the  courtyard's 
access  to  the  lane.  He  passed  through,  and  stood  still — 
listening — looking  sharply  about  him.  He  knew  the 
place  well.  It  was  the  heart  and  centre,  the  core  of  its 
own  particular  and  vicious  section  of  the  underworld. 
Ahead  of  him,  flanking  the  two-story,  tumble-down 
building  that  was  the  Spider's  home,  was  a  narrow  alley- 
way, then  a  small  and  filthy  courtyard,  and,  its  rear  upon 
this  and  fronting  the  street,  the  alleyway  again  at  the 
side,  was  "The  Yellow  Lantern"  that  he  had  been  careful 
to  avoid — a  dance  hall  of  the  lowest  type.  The  Spider 
had  not  unshrewdly  chosen  his  location;  nor  the  pro- 


1*4.       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

prietor  of  "The  Yellow  Lantern"  his — their  clientele  was 
a  common  one,  and  their  interests  did  not  clash  ! 

From  the  direction  of  "The  Yellow  Lantern"  came  a 
hilarious  uproar,  subdued  somewhat  by  the  distance,  out 
of  which  arose  the  strident  notes  of  a  tinny  piano  beat- 
ing blatantly  the  measure  of  a  turkey  trot.  There  was  no 
other  sound.  There  were  lights  from  the  rear  of  the 
dance  hall,  enough,  Jimmie  Dale  knew,  to  throw  a  murky 
illumination  over  the  front  windows  of  the  antique  shop; 
but  there  were  no  lights  showing  from  the  Spider's  dwell- 
ing itself,  that  loomed  black  on  the  side  of  the  alleyway 
at  his  right  hand — the  old  couple  that  kept  the  Spider's 
house  were  doubtless  long  since  in  bed  in  their  own  par- 
ticular apartments  upstairs. 

Jimmie  Dale  moved  softly  forward  now,  gained  the 
back  entrance  of  the  Spider's  house,  and  tried  the  door 
cautiously.  It  was  locked.  From  one  of  the  little  pockets 
in  the  girdle  under  his  shirt  came  a  black  silk  mask, 
which  he  slipped  over  his  face;  from  another  of  the 
pockets  came  a  little  steel  picklock.  He  was  pressed  close 
against  the  door  now,  his  body  merged  with  the  black 
shadows  of  the  wall.  A  minute  passed — and  then  the 
door  swung  open,  and  closed  without  a  sound.  Another 
minute  passed,  and  still  another.  From  upstairs  came 
the  sound  of  stertorous  breathing,  nothing  else,  only 
quiet,  and  a  silence  that  was  heavy  in  itself — and  then  the 
round,  white  ray  of  Jimmie  Dale's  flashlight  winked 
through  the  blackness.  As  between  himself  and  the  Wolf, 
he  was  first,  at  least,  on  the  ground ! 

He  was  in  the  kitchen  of  the  house.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room  from  him  were  two  doors,  one  of  them, 
the  one  to  the  left,  open — and  the  flashlight,  play- 
ing through,  disclosed  a  passageway  leading,  obviously, 
to  the  shop  at  the  front,  and  continuing  to  the  stairway. 
He  crossed  to  the  right-hand  door  noiselessly,  opened  it, 


'WARE  THE  WOLF  125 

and,  with  a  low  ejaculation  of  satisfaction,  stepped  in 
over  the  threshold.  It  was  the  room  he  sought — the 
Spider's  bedroom,  or,  better  perhaps,  the  Spider's  den 
that  served  the  man  for  all  purposes.  The  Spider,  it  was 
very  plain,  was  not  fastidious !  The  room  was  dingy  be- 
yond description;  the  furnishings  poor  and  poverty- 
stricken  in  appearance.  It  was  here  the  Spider  met  his 
clients  of  a  sort — and  drove  his  bargains.  There  was  no 
hint  of  affluence — the  room  was  miserly. 

The  flashlight  swept  in  a  circle  around  the  room.  There 
was  a  bed  in  one  corner,  a  table  and  two  chairs  in  another, 
and  a  miserable  washstand  in  still  another.  The  centre 
of  the  room,  save  for  an  old  carpet  on  the  floor,  was 
quite  bare  of  furnishings.  Jimmie  Dale's  survey  of  the 
appointments,  however,  was  most  cursory — they  con- 
cerned him  little.  The  flashlight's  ray  was  even  lifted 
above  them,  as  it  moved  about.  There  was  only  one 
door — the  door  by  which  he  had  entered;  and  only  one 
window — which,  with  a  sudden  frown,  he  mentally  noted 
did  not  open  on  the  alleyway,  for  the  very  sufficient 
reason  that  the  alleyway  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house.  He  stepped  quickly  to  the  window,  and  looked 
cut.  It  was  a  moment  before  he  could  see;  and  then, 
with  a  quick  nod  of  his  head,  he  began,  with  extreme 
caution  to  loosen  the  window  catches  on  the  sill.  There 
was  a  narrow  space  between  the  house  and  what  was 
evidently  the  blank  brick  wall  of  the  building  next  to  it, 
and  this  space  extended  to  the  rear,  and  therefore,  in- 
directly, by  circling  the  house  at  the  back,  led  to  the 
lane  and  the  door  in  the  fence  again. 

Jimmie  Dale  smiled  grimly,  as  he  swung  the  old- 
fashioned  windows  back  on  either  side.  So  far  he  was 
in  luck  to-night,  and,  with  luck,  in  a  very  few  minutes 
now,  he  would  be  out  and  away  from  the  house  by  the 
same  way  he  had  entered  It — but  luck  sometimes  was  a 


1*6       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

fickle  thing,  and  a  goddess  most  to  be  trusted  by  those 
who  looked  after  themselves ! 

He  walked  back  to  the  doorway,  and  levelled  his  flash- 
light across  the  room  directly  in  front  of  him.  The 
ray  fell  upon  the  wooden  panelling,  and,  holding  the 
light  steadily  on  the  same  spot,  he  moved  forward  across 
the  floor  to  the  opposite  wall,  dropped  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  and  began  to  examine  the  woodwork  critically. 
It  was  beautiful  work,  this  panelling  that  went  all  around 
the  room,  very  old,  but  very  beautiful  work,  and  of  very 
beautifully  matched  wood — it  was  entirely  out  of  place 
with  the  rest  of  the  room,  or  would  have  been,  were  it 
not  that  the  panelling  itself  bore  witness  to  the  fact 
that  it  had  been  built  in  there  when  the  house  itself 
had  been  built,  and  bore  witness,  too,  to  the  fact  that 
in  those  days,  long  gone  by,  a  relic  perhaps  even  of 
Dutch  handiwork,  the  house  had  not  been  unpretentious 
amongst  its  fellows  of  that  generation. 

"Behind  panelling  in  bedraom  directly  opposite  the 
door,"  she  had  written.  Inch  by  inch,  over  an  area  a 
yard  square,  those  sensitive  finger  tips  of  Jimmie  Dale 
felt  their  way,  lingering  here  over  a  knot  in  the  wood, 
and  there  over  a  joint  or  crevice.  Five  minutes  went 
by — and  the  five  became  ten.  An  exclamation  of  annoy- 
ance, low,  guarded,  escaped  him.  There  was  nothing — 
he  could  find  nothing.  The  Spider's  ingenuity  had  not 
been  over-rated!  Somewhere  there  must  be  the  secret 
spring  which  operated  the  panel,  but  there  was  no  sign 
of  it;  neither  was  there  the  slightest  sign  or  indication 
that  any  portion  of  the  panelling  was  even  movable. 

He  drew  back  for  an  instant,  frowning.  Perhaps— 
and  then  he  shook  his  head — no,  the  Tocsin  did  not  make 
mistakes  of  that  kind.  The  safe  was  unquestionably  be- 
hind the  panelling  in  front  of  him.  Well,  there  was  a 
way — it  was  distasteful  to  him  because  it  was  crude  and 


*WARE  THE  WOLF  127 

bungling,  but  he  could  afford  no  more  time  in  a  search 
that  he  had  already  convinced  himself  was  hopeless. 

From  the  girdle  came  a  half  dozen  little  blue-steel 
tools.  A  jimmy  found  and  nosed  its  way  into  the  joint 
between  two  panels.  There  was  a  low,  faint  creak  of 
rending  wood.  A  wedge  followed  the  jimmy.  A  faint 
creak  again — and  now  one  a  little  louder — and  Jimmie 
Dale,  half  turned,  listened  intently — the  narrow  board 
was  in  his  hand.  There  was  nothing — no  sound — save 
that  uninterrupted,  stertorous  breathing  from  above,  and 
the  tinny  jangle  of  the  piano  from  the  direction  of  "The 
Yellow  Lantern." 

And  now  Jimmie  Dale  smiled  again — that  curious 
flicker  on  his  lips  that  mingled  whimsicality  and  a 
deadly  earnestness.  The  Tocsin  had  made  no  mistake. 
Showing  through  the  aperture,  gleaming  under  the  flash- 
light's ray,  was  the  nickel  dial  of  a  safe.  He  worked 
rapidly  now.  The  first  panel  out,  the  remainder  came 
much  more  readily — and  finally  the  entire  face  of  the 
safe  was  disclosed.  Jimmie  Dale  stared  at  it — and 
pursed  his  lips.  It  was  an  ugly  safe,  extremely  ugly— 
from  a  cracksman's  point  of  view!  Also,  there  seemed 
a  hint  of  irony,  a  jeer  almost,  in  the  impassive  wall  of 
steel  that  confronted  him.  It  was  one  of  his  own  make 
— one  that  had  helped,  in  the  old  days,  to  amass  the  mil- 
lions that  his  father  had  left  to  him — and  it  was  one  of 
the  best! 

In  an  abstracted,  deliberate  way,  his  eyes  pondering 
the  safe,  the  blue-steel  tools  were  replaced  in  the  pockets 
of  the  leather  girdle;  and  then  the  long,  slim,  tapering 
fingers  closed  upon  the  dial's  knob  and  twirled  it  tenta- 
iively,  and  his  head  bent  forward  until  his  ear  was 
pressed  hard  against  the  face  of  the  safe. 

It  was  very  still  now — only  the  breathing  from  abovft 
that  seemed  in  cadence  with  those  strange  and  para- 


JS8       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

idoxical  palpitations  that  are  known  only  in  a  great  silence 
—the  piano  for  the  moment  had  ceased  its  jangle.  Jim- 
mie  Dak's  fingers,  from  the  dial,  sought  the  floor,  and 
frictioned  briskly  over  the  rough,  threadbare  carpet, 
until  the  nerves  tingled  under  the  delicate  skin — and  then 
they  shot  to  the  dial  again. 

Strained,  every  faculty  keyed  up  to  its  highest  ten" 
sion,  he  crouched  there  against  the  safe.  Again  and 
again  his  fingers  rubbed  over  the  rough  carpet,  and  again 
the  sweat  beads  oozed  out  upon  his  forehead  with  the 
strain — and  then  there  came  through  the  stillness  a  long- 
drawn  intake  of  his  breath.  The  handle  swung  the  bolt 
with  a  low  metallic  thud — the  safe  was  open. 

There  was  the  inner  door  now.  Again  those  slim  fin- 
gers, almost  raw,  quivering  now  at  the  tips,  rubbed  along 
the  carpet,  and  the  lips,  just  showing  beneath  the  edge 
of  the  mask,  grew  tight  with  pain.  Then  he  leaned  for- 
ward, crouched  once,  itnore,  his  head  and  shoulders 
inside  the  outer  door,  like  some  strange  animal  burrow- 
ing for  its  prey.  Faint,  musical,  like  some  far  distant 
tinkle,  came  the  twirling  of  the  dial — and  then,  suddenly, 
he  drew  back  sharply,  his  hand  shot  to  his  pocket, 
whipped  out  his  automatic,  and,  motionless  there  on  his 
knees,  every  muscle  rigid,  he  listened.  There  was  the 
piano  again,  the  breathing,  the  weird  pound  and  thump 
of  the  silence — nothing  else.  He  shook  his  head  in  half 
angry,  half  tolerant  self -remonstrance.  He  was  under 
strain,  that  was  all — he  had  thought  he  had  heard  a 
footstep  out  there  in  the  alleyway.  He  laid  his  automatic 
on  the  floor  within  instant  reach,  and  turned  again  to 
the  safe — acute  and  sensitive  as  his  hearing  was,  it  would 
have  taken  good  ears  indeed  to  have  distinguished  a 
step  at  that  distance  on  the  other  side  of  the  house! 

Bui  now  he  worked,  seemingly  at  kast,  with  even 


'WARE  THE  WOLF  129 

greater  rapidity  than  before.  Imagination  had  had  one 
effect,  if  it  had  had  no  other — it  was  a  spur,  a  reminder 
that  at  any  moment  there  might  well  be  a  footstep,  and 
one  that  was  not  born  only  of  the  imagination!  His 
jaws  clamped.  He  had  not  counted  on  this — an  old- 
fashioned  iron  monstrosity  that  was  dismaying  only  in  its 
appearance,  perhaps — but  not  this!  He  had  been  here 
far  longer  now  than  he 

"Ah!" — tense,  low,  that  deep  intake  of  the  breath 
again. 

The  inner  door  swung  wide ;  the  flashlight's  ray  leaped, 
dazzling  white,  into  the  interior,  and,  on  the  lower  shelf, 
played  upon  a  flat,  narrow,  black  tin  box — the  cash-box. 

In  an  instant,  Jimmie  Dale  had  picked  it  up.  It  was 
not  locked,  and  he  lifted  the  cover.  From  within  there 
scintillated  back  the  gleam  of  diamonds — a  handful  of 
pendants,  brooches,  ear-rings  lay  there  disclosed,  and, 
too,  a  string  of  pearls.  Ten  thousand  dollars !  It  was  a 
modest  figure!  He  reached  his  hand  inside  the  box — 
and  on  the  instant  snatched  it  back,  and  thrust  the  box 
swiftly  into  his  pocket.  The  flashlight  was  out.  The 
room  was  in  darkness. 

This  time  it  was  not  imagination — nor,  he  knew  now, 
had  it  been  imagination  before.  There  was  a  faint  creak 
of  the  flooring  in  the  kitchen,  a  single  incautious  step 
that  he  placed  as  having  come  from  near  the  doorway  o.f 
the  passage — and  now  some  one  had  halted  on  the 
threshold  of  the  room  itself.  Jimmie  Dale's  brain  was 
working  with  lightning  speed.  There  had  been  no  time 
to  reach  the  window — time  only  to  snatch  up  his  auto- 
matic and  retreat  a  little  from  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  safe.  Had  the  other  heard  the  slight  sound — it 
was  only  the  brushing  of  his  coat  against  the  wall !  Much 
less  had  there  been  time  to  close  the  safe — nor  would  it 
have  done  any  good — he  could  not  have  replaced  the 


180       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

broken  panelling!  And  now — what?  The  man,  with  t>- 
stealth  that  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  except  for  that  one  incau- 
tious footfall,  could  not  have  excelled,  must  have  entered 
through  a  window  from  the  alleyway  into  the  passage 
It  was  dark,  utterly  dark — save  that  the  window  showed 
dimly  like  a  faint  transparent  square  set  in  the  blackness. 
He  could  not  see,  but  he  could  sense  the  other  stand- 
ing there  in  the  doorway,  motionless,  silent,  as  though 
listening.  Perhaps  a  minute  passed.  There  was  some- 
thing nerve-racking  now  in  the  silence,  something  sinis- 
ter, something  pregnant  with  menace.  And  then,  sud- 
denly, there  came  a  low,  scratching  sound,  and  a  match 
flame  spurted  through  the  darkness,  and  lighted  up  a 
face — a  face  that  was  thrust  forward  through  the  door- 
way with  a  sort  of  pent-up  and  malicious  eagerness;  a 
vicious  face,  with  sharp,  restive  black  eyes  under  great, 
hairy  eyebrows;  a  face  with  a  huge  jaw,  outflung  now, 
that  was  like  the  jaw  of  a  beast.  It  was  the  Woif  1 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  CHASE 

[T  held  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  that  light — no 
more.  It  travelled  upward  past  the  face,  as  though 
(he  Wolf  were  holding  it  above  his  head  to  get  his  bear- 
trigs  ;  and  then,  with  a  sharp  and  furious  oath,  the  match 
was  hurled  to  the  floor,  there  was  a  scuffling  sound — 
,*nd,  then  silence  again. 

Jimmie  Dale's  automatic  was  thrust  a  little  forward 
in  his  hand,  as  he  crouched  against  the  wall.  He  could 
have  shot  the  man,  as  the  other  stood  in  the  doorway. 
The  Wolf  had  offered  a  target  that  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  miss — and  it  would,  one  day,  have  saved  the 
law  the  same  task !  He  was  a  fool,  perhaps,  that  he  had 
not  taken  what  was,  perhaps  again,  the  one  chance  he 
had  for  his  life,  for  he  was  at  a  decided  disadvantage 
now,  since  he  knew  intuitively  that  the  Wolf,  scuttling 
back,  had  now  craftily  protected  himself  behind  the  jamb 
of  the  door,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  still  commanded 
the  interior  of  the  room.  But  he  could  not  have  fired 
in  cold  blood  like  that — even  upon  the  Wolf,  devil  though 
the  man  was,  murderer  a  dozen  times  over  though  he 
knew  the  man  to  be !  He,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  never  shot 
to  kill — not  yet — but  in  a  fight,  cornered,  if  there  was  no 
other  way  .  .  .! 

He  moved  a  little,  a  bare  few  inches,  then  a  few  more 
— without  a  sound.  In  the  light  of  the  match,  the  Wolf 
must  Lave  seen  the  dismantled  panelling  and  the  open 


132       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

safe,  and  a  masked  figure  crouched  against  the  wall — and 
the  Wolf  would  have  marked  the  position  of  that 
crouched  figure  against  the  wall ! 

Silence — a  minute  of  it — still  another! 

Again  Jimmie  Dale  moved  inch  by  inch — toward  the 
window.  And  yet  to  attempt  the  window  was  to  invite 
a  shot  and  expose  himself,  for,  dark  as  it  was,  his  body 
would  show  plainly  enough  against  the  background  of 
that  lesser  gloom  of  window  square. 

Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  strained  through  the  blackness 
across  the  room.  He  could  just  make  out  the  configura- 
tion of  the  doorway.  The  Wolf  was  just  on  the  other 
side  of  it,  just  inside  the  kitchen,  he  was  sure  of  that. 
Almost  a  smile  was  flickering  over  Jimmie  Dale's  tight- 
pressed  lips.  There  was  a  way — there  was  a  way  now, 
if  the  Wolf  did  not  get  him  with  a  chance  shot.  He  moved 
again,  and  reached  the  window,  crouched  low  beneath 
the  sill — and  passed  by  the  window. 

And  then  the  Wolf  spoke  from  the  doorway  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  and  in  the  whisper  there  was  a  low, 
taunting  laugh. 

"I  been  waitin'  for  you  to  try  the  window,  but  you're 
too  foxy — eh?  All  right,  my  bucko — then  I'll  get  you 
another  way — with  just  one  shot,  see  ?  And  then — good- 
night! And  say,  whoever  t'hell  you  are,  thanks  for 
crackin'  the  box  for  me !" 

The  man's  voice  came  from  the  right  of  the  doorway— 
and  the  door  opened  inward — and  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  re- 
membered that  he  had  opened  it  wide.  It  was  slow,  very 
slow,  this  creeping  inch  by  inch  through  the  darkness. 
It  seemed  as  though  his  breath  were  as  stertorous  as  that 
breathing  from  above,  and  that  the  Wolf  must  hear. 

And  then  the  Wolf  laughed  low  again. 

There  was  a  curious  crackling  noise,  as  of  paper 
being  torn — and  then,  quick,  in  the  doorwav,  came  a 


THE  CHASE  133 

yellow  flame,  and  the  Wolf's  hand  showed  from  around 
the  edge  of  the  jamb,  and,  making  momentary  daylight 
of  the  room,  a  flaming  piece  of  paper,  tossed  in,  fell  upon 
the  floor. 

There  was  a  flash,  the  roar  of  the  report — and  another 
— as  the  Wolf  fired!  There  was  the  sullen  spat  of  a 
bullet  upon  the  panelling  an  inch  from  Jimmie  Dale's 
head — and  a  sharp  and  sudden  pain,  as  though  a  hot 
iron  had  seared  his  leg. 

And  now  Jimmie  Dale's  automatic,  too,  cut  flashes 
with  its  vicious  flame-tongues  through  the  black.  Coolly, 
steadily,  he  was  firing  at  the  doorway — to  hold  the  Wolf 
there — to  keep  the  Wolf  now  in  the  position  of  the 
Wolf's  own  choosing.  The  paper  was  but  a  dull  cinder 
in  the  centre  of  the  room;  twisted  too  tightly,  it  had 
gone  out  almost  immediately. 

There  came  screams,  loud,  terrified,  in  a  woman's 
voice  from  the  floor  above — and  the  hoarser  tones  of  a 
man  shouting.  A  window  was  flung  open.  Snarling 
blasphemous,  furious  oaths,  the  Wolf  was  firing  at  the 
flashes  of  Jimmie  Dale's  revolver — but  each  time  as  Jim- 
mie Dale  fired,  the  sound  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the 
report,  he  moved  a  good  yard  forward. 

Came  the  trampling  of  feet  from  overhead  now;  and 
now,  as  the  woman  still  screamed,  answering  shouts 
and  yells  came  from  the  dance  hall.  Jimmie  Dale  had 
gained  the  foot  of  the  bed  now  near  the  corner.  He 
fired  again,  and  instantly  flung  himself  flat  upon  the  floor 
— and,  in  the  answering  flash  of  the  Wolf's  shot,  placed 
the  exact  location  of  the  door  itself.  There  was  tumult 
enough  now  to  deaden  the  slight  sound  he  made.  He 
crept  swiftly  past  the  bed  to  the  wall,  against  which  the 
door,  wide  open,  was  swung  back,  felt  out  with  his  hand, 
found  the  edge  of  the  door,  and,  leaping  suddenly  to  his 
feet,  hurled  the  door  shut  upon  the  Wolf.  There  was 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

a  scream  of  pain — the  door  as  it  slammed  perhaps  had 
caught  the  Wolf's  arm  or  wrist — but  before  it  wai 
opened  again  Jimmie  Dale  was  across  the  room,  and, 
flinging  himself  through  the  window,  dropped  to  the 
ground. 

The  door  crashing  back  against  the  wall  again,  the 
Wolf's  baffled  yell  of  rage,  and  an  abortive  shot,  told  hirm 
that  his  ruse  had  been  solved.    He  was  running  now,  ay 
rapidly  as  he  could  in  the  darkness  and  in  the  narrovf 
space  between  the  Spider's  house  and  the  wall  of  thf1 
brick  building.    Yells  in  increasing  volume  sounded  f  rori 
the  direction  of  "The  Yellow  Lantern";  and  now  hf 
could  hear  the  pound  of  feet  racing  across  the  courtyard' 
toward  the  antique  shop.     The  woman,  from  the  oper 
window  above,  was  still  screaming  with  terror. 

If  he  could  gain  the  door  in  the  fence — and  the  lane)1 
But  there  was  still  the  Wolf  to  reckon  with !  The  Wolf 
had  only  to  run  through  the  kitchen  and  out  by  the  bad 
entrance — the  shorter  distance  of  the  two.  But  the  Wolf 
had  already  lost  a  few  seconds  so  that  now  the  rac* 
was  a  gamble.  Could  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  get  there  firstf 
He  could  not  run  in  the  other  direction — that  would  takf 
him  into  the  courtyard,  and  the  courtyard  now,  as  evi- 
denced by  the  yells  and  shouting,  was  filled  with  an 
excited  crowd  emptying  from  the  dance  hall. 

He  reached  the  rear  end  of  the  house,  and  darted 
across  the  wider  space  here,  racing  for  the  opening  in 
the  fence — and  suddenly  changed  his  tactics,  and  began 
to  zigzag  a  little.  A  revolver  flash  cut  the  night.  Came 
the  Wolf's  howl  from  the  back  stoop,  and,  over  his 
shoulder,  Jimmie  Dale  saw  the  other,  dark-shadowed, 
leap  forward  in  pursuit — and  heard  the  Wolf  fire  again, 

He  flung  himself  against  the  fence  door,  and  it  gave 
with  a  crash.  Pandemonium  reigned  behind  him.  ID 
a  blur  he  saw  the  courtyard,  that  was  dimly  lighted  now 


THE  CHASE  135 

by  the  open  doors  and  open  windows  of  the  dance  hall, 
swaying  with  shapes,  and,  like  ghostly  figures,  a  mob 
tearing  toward  him  down  the  alleyway. 

The  Wolf's  voice,  punctuated  with  a  torrent  of  blas- 
phemy and  vile  invective,  shrill-ed  out  over  the  tumult: 

"Come  on !    Here  he  is !    Out  in  the  lane !" 

"Who  is  it?"  shrilled  another  voice. 

"I  don't  know!"  yelled  the  Wolf.  "Catch  him,  and 
we'll  damn  soon  find  out !" 

Jimmie  Dale  was  running  like  a  hare  now  down  the 
lane.  The  Wolf  leading,  still  firing,  the  crowd  poured 
out  into  the  lane  in  pursuit.  Jimmie  Dale  zigzagged  no 
longer,  there  was  greater  risk  in  that  than  in  risking  the 
ghots — it  was  black  enough  in  the  lane  to  risk  the  shots; 
but  his  lead,  barely  twenty-five  yards,  was  too  short  to 
risk  their  gaining  upon  him  through  his  running  from 
side  to  side. 

His  brain,  cool  in  peril,  worked  swiftly.  The  Sanctu- 
ary! That  was  the  one  chance  for  his  life!  He  had 
been  no  more  than  a  masked  figure  huddled  against  the 
wall  of  the  room  in  there.  The  Wolf  had  not  recognised 
him.  He  would  be  safe  if  he  could  reach  the  Sanctuary ! 
There  were  two  blocks  to  go  along  the  street  ahead,  then 
the  next  lane,  and  from  that  into  the  intersecting  lane, 
then  the  loose  board  in  the  fence  that  swung  at  a  touch, 
and  the  French  window — and  the  Sanctuary.  But  to  ac- 
complish this  he  must  gain  upon  his  pursuers,  not  merely 
hold  his  own,  but  increase  the  distance  between  them  by 
at  least  another  fifteen  or  twenty  yards;  he  must,  in 
other  words,  be  out  of  range  of  vision  as  he  disappeared 
through  the  fence.  Well,  he  should  be  able  to  do  that! 
It  was  the  trained  athlete  against  an  ill-conditioned, 
dissolute  mob ! 

He  swerved  from  the  lane  into  the  street.  There  was 
grim  and  hellish  humour  in  the  thought  that  a  wolf  should 


be  leading  the  snarling1,  howling  pack,  blood  mad  now, 
at  his  heels !  The  Wolf  had  ceased  firing— obviously  be- 
cause the  Wolf's  revolver  was  empty.  The  others,  a 
lesser  breed,  and  previously  intent  on  a  peaceful  orgy 
at  the  dance  hall,  were  evidently  not  armed. 

Jimmie  Dale  gained  five  yards,  another  five,  and  an- 
other ten.  He  had  no  fear  of  being  recognised  as  Smarl- 
inghue  even  here,  where,  poorly  illuminated  as  the  street 
was,  it  was  like  bright  sunlight  compared  with  the  dark- 
ness of  the  lane.  There  was  no  stooped,  bent  figure, 
no  slouching  gait — there  was,  instead,  a  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  man,  whose  face  was  masked,  and  who  ran 
with  the  speed  of  a  greyhound,  and  whose  automatic, 
spitting  ahead  of  him  as  he  ran,  invited  none  of  the  few 
pedestrians,  or  those  rushing  to  their  doorways,  to  block 
his  path. 

He  swerved  again,  into  a  lane  again,  the  lane  he  had 
been  making  for;  and,  as  he  swerved,  he  flung  a  side- 
long glance  down  the  street.  Yes,  his  twenty-five  yards 
were  fifty  now,  except  for  the  Wolf,  who  ran  perhaps  ten 
yards  in  advance  of  any  of  the  others.  The  howls,  yells, 
shouts  and  execrations  welled  into  a  louder  outburst  as 
he  dashed  into  the  lane.  Ten  from  fifty  left  forty.  Forty 
yards  clear !  It  was  a  very  narrow  margin,  even  allowing 
for  the  blackness  of  the  lane — but  it  was  enough — it  was 
slightly  more  than  the  distance  along  the  intersecting 
lane  to  the  rear  of  the  Sanctuary — he  would  have  pushed 
aside  that  loose  board  before  the  Wolf  turned  the  corner 
from  one  lane  into  the  other ! 

Forty  yards!  Perhaps  he  could  make  it  forty-five! 
Forty-five  would  be  safer,  and — he  reeled  suddenly,  and 
staggered,  and,  with  a  low  cry,  his  hands  reached  up- 
ward to  his  temples.  His  head  was  swimming — a  dizzi- 
ness, a  nausea  was  upon  him — his  strength  seemed  as 
though  it  were  being  sapped  from  his  limbs.  What  was  it? 


THE  CHASE  137 

He — yes — the  wound  in  his  leg!  Yes — he  remembered 
now — that  burning  like  the  searing  of  a  hot  iron.  He 
had  forgotten  it  in  the  excitement.  But  it  could  not 
amount  to  anything — or  he  would  not  have  been  able 
to  have  come  this  far.  It  was  only  a  passing  giddiness — 
he  was  better  now — see,  he  was  still  running — he  had 
only  slowed  his  pace  for  an  instant — that  was  all. 

They  swept  into  the  lane  behind  him.  He  looked  back— 
and  his  lips  grew  tight,  and  bitter  hard.  It  was  no  longer 
forty  yards — he  was  not  running  so  fast  now — and  it  was 
the  Wolf,  and  the  Wolf's  pack,  who  were  gaining. 

He  swerved  for  the  third  time — into  the  stretch  of  in* 
tersecting  lane.  The  Sanctuary  was  just  ahead,  but 
he  must  reach  that  loose  board  in  the  fence  and  have 
disappeared  before  the  Wolf  swung  around  the  corner 
behind  him — or  else — or  else,  since  that  led  to  nowhere 
but  to  the  French  window  of  Smarlinghue's  room,  the 
game  was  as  good  as  up  if  he  attempted  it! 

He  strained  forward,  striving  to  mass  his  strength  and 
fling  it  into  one  supreme  effort.  He  was  close  now — only 
another  five  yards  to  go.  Yes — he  was  weak.  His  teeth 
set.  Four  yards — three!  If  only  there  were  not  that 
glimmer  of  light,  faint  as  it  was,  seeping  down  the  lane 
from  the  street  lamp  across  the  road  from  the  Sanctuary ! 
Two  yards — now!  No!  The  Wolf's  yell,  as  the  man 
tore  around  the  corner  of  the  two  lanes,  rang  out  like  a 
knell  of  doom. 

Drawn,  white-faced,  Jimmie  Dale,  stumbling  now, 
lurched  past  that  loose  board  he  had  counted  upon  for 
what  was  literally  his  life — lurched  past,  and  stumbled 
on.  He  could  not  run  much  farther.  There  was  one 
chance  left — just  one — that  there  should  be  no  one  to  see 
him  enter  the  front  door  of  the  Sanctuary,  no  one  loung- 
ing about,  no  one  in  the  tenement  doorway.  If  that 
chance  failed — well,  then  it  was  the  end — *be  end  of 


138       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

Sraarlinghue,  the  end  of  Jimmie  Dak,  the  end  of  Larry 
the  Bat,  the  end  of  the  Gray  Seal — and  the  Wolf  would 
have  kept  his  pledge  to  gangland.  But  it  would  be  an  end 
that  gangland  would  long  remember,  and  an  end  that  the 
Wolf  would  share! 

The  street  was  just  before  him  now.  He  turned  into 
it — and  there  came  a  little  cry,  a  moan  almost,  of  relief. 
The  doorway  of  the  tenement  was  clear.  He  sprang  for 
it,  entered,  and,  suddenly  silent  now  in  his  tread,  reached 
the  door  of  his  own  room,  slipped  through  and  closed 
it  softly  behind  him. 

And  now  Jimmie  Dale  worked  with  frantic  speed.  He 
could  hear  them  racing,  yelling,  shouting  along  the  lane. 
A  match  crackled  in  his  hand,  and  the  gas-jet  spluttered 
into  flame — the  light  in  the  room  could  not  be  seen  from 
the  lane.  He  ran  across  the  room,  tearing  off  his  mask 
aa  he  went,  and,  wrenching  the  cash-box  from  his  pocket, 
tucked  mask  and  cash-box  behind  the  disordered  array  of 
dirty  canvases  on  the  floor — he  dared  not  take  the  risk  or 
the  time  that  loosening  the  base  board  would  entail.  He 
flung  his  hat  into  a  corner,  and,  ripping  off  his  coat, 
tossed  it  upon  the  cot;  then,  snatching  up  a  paint  tube, 
he  smeared  a  daub  of  paint  upon  the  palette  that  lay  on 
the  table,  and  laid  a  wet  brush  hurriedly  several  times 
across  the  canvas  on  the  easel. 

From  the  corner  of  the  lane  and  street  outside  came 
the  scuffling  to  and  fro  of  many  feet,  as  though  in  un- 
certainty, in  indecision,  in  hesitancy.  A  dozen  voices 
spoke  at  once,  high-pitched,  wild,  frenzied. 

"Where  is  he?  ...  Which  way  did  he  go?  ... 
Where " 

And  then  the  Wolf's  voice,  above  the  rest,  in  a  sudden, 
excited  yell: 

"What's  that  across  there!  It's  him!  There  he  is! 
He's  kept  on  up  the  lane !  He's " 


THE  CHASE  139 

The  voice  was  lost  in  a  chorus  of  shouts,  in  the  pound 
and  stampede  of  racing  feet  again,  of  the  pack  in  cry. 
The  sounds  receded  and  died  in  the  distance.  Jimmie 
Dale  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and  brought  it 
away  damp  with  sweat.  He  staggered  now  to  the  wash- 
stand,  and  from  the  drawer  took  out  a  bottle  of  brandy, 
and,  heedless  of  glass,  uncorked  it,  and  lifted  it  to  his 
lips.  He  would  never  know  a  closer  call !  He  had  been 
weaker  than  he  had  thought!  Thank  God  for  the 
brandy!  The  fiery  stimulant  was  whipping  the  blood  in 
his  veins  into  life  again,  and — the  bottle  was  still  held  to 
his  lips,  but  he  was  no  longer  drinking.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  washstand's  mirror.  He  heard  no  sound,  but  in 
the  mirror  he  saw  the  door  of  his  room  open,  close 
again,  and,  leaning  with  his  back  against  it — the  Wolf! 

Not  a  muscle  of  Jimmie  Dale's  face  moved.  He  al- 
lowed another  gulp  of  brandy  to  gurgle  noisily  down  his 
throat.  The  cool,  alert,  keen  brain  was  at  work.  It  was 
certain  that  the  Wolf  had  at  no  time  that  night  recog- 
nised him  as  Smarlinghue.  The  Wolf,  therefore,  at 
worst,  could  be  no  more  than  gambling  on  the  chance 
that  the  object  of  the  chase  had  taken  refuge  here  in  the 
tenement,  and,  naturally  enough  then,  was  beginning  his 
investigation  with  the  ground  floor  room.  And  yet,  why 
then  had  the  Wolf,  deliberately  in  that  case,  sent  his 
pack  off  on  a  false  scent?  In  the  mirror  he  could  see 
that  huge  jaw  outthrust,  the  black  eyes  narrowed,  an 
ugly  leer  on  the  working  face — and  a  revolver  in  the 
Wolf's  hand  that  held  a  bead  on  his,  Jimmie  Dale's,  head. 

It  was  "Smarlinghue/'  the  wretched,  nervous,  drug- 
wrecked  creature  that  turned  around — and,  as  though 
startled  at  the  sight  of  the  other,  almost  let  the  bottle  fall 
from  his  hand. 

"So    it    was    you — eh — Smarlinghue!      Curse    you!" 


140       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

snarled  the  Wolf.  "Come  out  here,  and  stand  in  the 
centre  of  the  room !" 

Smarlinghue  cringed.  He  put  down  the  bottle  with 
a  trembling  hand,  and  slouched  forward. 

"I  ain't  done  nothing !"  he  whined. 

"No,  you  ain't  done  a  thing — except  crack  a  box  and 
pinch  about  ten  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  sparklers!" 
The  Wolf's  face,  if  possible,  was  more  ugly  in  its  threat 
than  before. 

Smarlinghue,  in  a  sort  of  stupefied  amazement,  stared 
around  the  room — as  though  he  expected  to  see  a  gleam- 
ing heap  of  diamonds  leap  into  sight  somewhere  before 
him.  He  shook  his  head  helplessly. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  he  mum- 
bled. "I — I  heard  a  row  outside  there  a  little  while  ago. 
Maybe  that's  it." 

"Yes — mabbe  it  is !"  sneered  the  Wolf  viciously.  "So 
you  don't  know  anything  about  it— eh?  You've  got  a 
hell  of  a  good  memory,  haven't  you!  You  don't  know 
anything  about  the  Spider's  safe,  or  about  a  little  fight 
in  the  Spider's  room,  or  about  jumping  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  beating  it  for  here  with  the  gang  after  you — 
no,  you  don't !  You  never  heard  of  it  before — of  course, 
you  didn't!" 

Smarlinghue  began  to  wring  his  hands  nervously  one 
over  the  other.  He  shook  his  head  helplessly  again. 

"It  wasn't  me!"  He  licked  his  lips.  "Honest,  it 
wasn't  me !  I — I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
I  ain't  been  out  of  this  room.  Honest !  Somebody's  try- 
ing to  put  me  in  wrong.  I  tell  you,  I  ain't  been  out  of 
here  all  night.  I — look!"  With  sudden,  feverish  eager- 
ness, as  though  from  an  inspiration,  he  pointed  to  the 
paint  brush,  the  palette,  and  the  canvas  on  the  easel. 
"Look !  Look  for  yourself !  You  can  see  for  yourself  I 
I've  been  painting." 


THE  CHASE  141 

And  then  the  Wolf  laughed — and  it  was  not  a  pleasant 
laugh. 

"Yes,  you've  been  painting!"  he  jeered.  "Sure,  you 
have!  I  know  that!  Only  you've  been  painting  a 
damned  sight  more  than  you  thought  you  were!" 

The  revolver  muzzle  covered  Jimmie  Dale  steadily,  un- 
swervingly; in  the  Wolf's  face  was  malicious  and  sar- 
donic mockery — but  the  Wolf's  eyes  were  no  longer  on 
Jimmie  Dale's  face,  they  seemed  curiously  intent  upon 
the  floor  at  Jimmie  Dale's  feet.  Mechanically  Jimmie 
Dale  followed  their  direction — and  his  eyes,  too,  held 
on  the  floor.  For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  The  game 
was  up!  His  boot  top  was  soaked  with  blood,  and,  trick- 
ling down  the  side  of  the  boot,  a  little  crimson  stream  was 
collecting  in  a  pool  upon  the  floor. 

"You  painted  some  of  that  on  the  doorstep!"  The 
Wolf's  taunting  laugh  held  a  deadly  menace.  "And  you 
painted  a  drop  or  two  of  it  along  the  street  as  you  ran. 
I  thought  when  you  bust  away  from  the  Spider's  and  that 
cursed  gang  nosed  in  that  I  was  going  to  lose  out ;  but  I 
figured  that  I  had  hit  you,  and  I  was  keeping  my  eyes 
skinned  to  see.  And  then  you  commenced  to  do  the  drip 
act — savvy  ?  I  was  still  looking  for  it  when  I  came  out  of 
the  lane — you  remember,  Smarlinghue,  don't  you?— 
you  got  your  memory  back,  ain't  you  ? — that  I  was  a  bit 
ahead  of  the  rest  of  'em?  It  didn't  take  a  second  to 
spot  that  on  the  doorstep,  and  there's  some  more  of  it  in 
the  hall.  Damned  queer,  ain't  it — that  it  led  right  to 
Smarlinghue's  room !"  The  laugh  was  gone.  The  Wolf 
began  to  come  forward  across  the  room.  The  snarl  was 
in  his  voice  again.  "You  come  across  with  those  spark- 
lers, and  you  come  across — quick!" 

But  now  Smarlinghue  was  like  a  crazed  and  demented 
creature,  and  he  shook  his  fists  at  the  Wolf. 

"I  won't!    I  won't!"  he  screamed.    "You  went  there 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

to  do  the  same  thing!  I  had  as  much  right  as  you! 
And  I  got  them — I  got  them!  They  said  he  had  them 
there,  they  were  all  talking  about  them  to-day,  and  I  got 
them !  I  won !  They're  mine  now !  I  won't  give  them 
to  you !  I  won't !  I  tell  you,  I  won't !" 

"Won't  you?"  The  Wolf  had  reached  Jimmie  Dale, 
and  one  of  the  Wolf's  hands  found  and  shook  Jimmie 
Dale's  throat,  while  the  revolver  muzzle  pressed  hard 
against  Jimmie  Dale's  breast.  "Oh,  I  guess  you  will! 
D'ye  hear  about  a  man  being  murdered  to-day  with  his 
face  cut  up  ?  Oh,  you  did — eh  ?  Well,  I  happen  to  know 
that  man  was  the  Spider,  and  one  of  these  days,  mabbe, 
the  police'll  tumble  to  who  it  was,  too.  Get  me  ?  Suppose 
I  call  some  of  that  gang  back,  and  show  'em  the  painting 
you've  done  along  the  hall — eh?  And  then,  by  and 
by,  when  the  bulls  get  wise,  it'll  be  yours  for  the  juice 
route,  not  just  a  space  or  two  for  cracking  a  box!  Get 
me  again?" 

Smarlinghue,  struggling  weakly,  pulled  the  other's 
hand  from  his  throat. 

"You — you  were  there,  too,  at — at  the  Spider's,"  he 
choked  craftily.  "You're — you're  in  it  as — as  bad  as  I 
am." 

"Sure,  I  was  there!"  mocked  the  Wolf,  and  snatched 
at  Jimmie  Dale's  throat  again.  "Sure,  I  was  there—- 
everybody saw  me!  The  Spider  was  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  everybody  knows  that,  too.  I  was  just  going  there 
to  pay  a  pal  a  little  visit — see?  And  that's  how  I  found 
you  there — see?  Anything  wrong  with  that  spiel?  It's 
a  cinch,  aint  it?"  The  fingers  closed  tighter  and  tighter 
on  Jimmie  Dale's  throat.  "And  that's  enough  talk — give 
me  them  sparklers!"  He  flung  Jimmie  Dale  savagely 
away.  "Get  'em!" 

Smarlinghue  reeled  backward  in  the  direction  of  the 
$sordered  canvases  on  the  floor.  It  was  quite  true !  If 


THE  CHASE  143 

the  Wolf  carried  out  his  threat — which  he  most  cer- 
*iinly  would  do  if  he  did  not  get  the  diamonds  for  him- 
•elf — Smarlinghue,  and  not  the  Wolf,  would  be  held  for 
the  Spider's  murder.  Jimmie  Dale  stooped,  fumbled 
amongst  the  canvases,  and  produced  the  cash-box. 
Well,  the  diamonds  would  have  to  go,  that  was  all — he 
had  no  choice  left  to  him.  But  he  was  still  "Smarling- 
hue," still  the  half  cowed,  yet  half  defiant,  pale-faced 
creature  that  shook  with  mingled  rage  and  fear,  as  he 
turned  again.  He  clutched  the  cash-box  to  him,  as 
though  loath  to  let  it  go;  but,  too,  as  though  fascinated 
by  the  Wolf's  revolver,  he  moved  reluctantly  toward  the 
Wolf,  who  now  stood  by  the  table. 

Smarlinghue's  hands  twined  and  twined  over  the  box, 
caressing  it  in  hideous  greed  and  avarice ;  and  he  mum- 
bled, and  his  lips  worked. 

"Half- — give  me  half?"  he  whispered  feverishly. 

"I'll  give  you — nothing!"  snarled  the  Wolf. 

"Half — give  me  a  quarter  then?"  whimpered  Smarl- 
inghue. 

"Drop  it!"  The  Wolf's  revolver  jerked  forward  into 
Jimmie  Dale's  face. 

And  then  Smarlinghue  screamed  out  in  impotent  rage, 
and,  wrenching  the  cover  of  the  cash-box  open,  flung 
the  jewels  in  a  glittering  heap  upon  the  table — and,  danc- 
ing in  demented  fashion  upon  his  toes,  like  a  man  gone 
mad,  he  hurled  the  cash-box  in  fury  from  him.  It  went 
through  the  canvas  on  the  easel,  and  clattered  to  the  floor. 

The  Wolf  laughed. 

But  Smarlinghue  had  retreated  now,  and,  crouched 
upon  the  cot,  was  mumbling  through  twisted  lips. 

And  again  the  Wolf  laughed,  and,  gathering  up  the 
jewels,  dropped  them  into  his  pocket,  and  backed  to  the 
door.  He  stood  there  an  instant,  his  eyes  narrowed  on 
Jimmie  Dale. 


144       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"I  got  the  stuff  now" — he  was  snarling  low,  viciously— 
"and  mabbe  that  puts  it  a  little  more  up  to  me.  But  if 
you  ever  open  your  mug  about  this,  I'll  do  to  you  what 
I  did  to  the  Spider  to-day — and  if  you  want  to  know 
what  that  is,  go  and  ask  the  police  to  let  you  have  a  look ! 
D'ye  understand?" 

Came  the  brutal,  taunting  laugh  again,  and  the  door 
closed  behind  the  Wolf,  and  his  step  died  away  along  the 
passage,  and  rang  an  instant  later  on  the  pavement 
without. 

It  was  a  moment  before  Jimmie  Dale  moved — but  into 
Smarlinghue's  distorted  features  there  came  a  strange 
smile.  He  reeled  a  little  from  weakness,  as  he  walked 
to  the  door,  locked  it,  and,  returning,  stooped  and  picked 
up  the  cash-box  from  the  floor.  In  the  false  bottom,  the 
Tocsin  had  said.  From  the  leather  girdle  came  a  sharp- 
pointed  tool.  He  pried  with  it  for  an  instant  inside  and 
around  the  bottom  edges,  and  loosening  a  sheet  of 
metal  that  fitted  exactly  to  the  edges  of  the  box,  lifted  out 
from  beneath  it  several  folded  sheets  of  paper.  He 
glanced  at  the  typewritten  sheets,  a  curious,  menacing 
gleam  creeping  into  the  dark  eyes,  then  thrust  the  papers 
inside  his  shirt;  and,  dropping  into  a  chair,  unlaced  and 
kicked  off  his  blood-soaked  boot. 

He  was  very  weak;  he  had  lost,  he  must  have  lost,  a 
great  deal  of  blood — but  there  was  something  to  do  yet — 
still  something  to  do.  There  was  still — the  Wolf! 

He  tore  the  sheet  on  the  cot  into  strips,  and  washed 
and  dressed  his  wound — a  flesh  wound,  but  bad  enough, 
he  saw,  just  above  the  knee.  And  then,  this  done,  he 
took  a  damp  piece  of  cloth,  went  to  the  door  again, 
opened  it,  and  looked  out.  There  was  neither  any  one 
in  sight,  nor  any  sound.  The  passage  was  murky ;  one 
gas-jet  alone  lighted  it,  and  that  was  turned  down. 
There  were  little  spots,  dark  spots  on  the  floor — but  the 


THE  CHASE 

Wolf  had  told  him  that.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his 
head — he  was  a  little  dizzy.  Then  slowly,  laboriously, 
he  removed  the  spots  from  the  hallway — and  one  from 
the  doorstep. 

Back  in  his  room  once  more,  he  locked  the  door  again. 
A  sense  of  utter  exhaustion  was  stealing  upon  him — but 
there  was  still  something  yet  to  be  done.  Another  gulp 
of  brandy  steadied  him,  steadied  his  head.  He  took  the 
papers  from  his  pocket  and  read  them  now.  Here  were 
the  details,  minute,  exact,  with  the  names  of  those  in- 
volved, names  of  those  who  would  squeal  quickly  enough 
to  save  themselves  once  they  were  in  the  clutches  of  the' 
law,  of  two  of  the  most  famous  murder  mysteries  that 
New  York  had  known;  the  details  of  two,  and,  unfin- 
ished, the  partial  details  of  another.  It  was  the  evidence 
the  police  had  long  sought.  It  was  the  death  sentence 
upon  the  Wolf — for  murder. 

Jimmie  Dale's  face,  very  white  now,  was  set  and  hard. 
The  Spider  had  been  too  late — to  save  himself.  Begin- 
ning to  fear  the  Wolf,  as  the  Tocsin  had  explained,  he 
had  begun  to  make  a  record  of  those  days  gone  by,  mean- 
ing to  hold  it  over  the  Wolf's  head  in  self -protection, 
deposit  it  somewhere  where  it  would  come  to  light  if 
any  attack  were  made  upon  him — only  the  Wolf  had 
struck  before  the  Spider  had  finished  all  he  had  meant 
to  write,  before  he  had  told  any  one  or  had  warned  the 
Wolf  that  the  papers  were  in  existence.  Too  late  to 
save  himself — and  yet,  if  the  Wolf  still  paid  the  penalty 
for  murder,  did  it  matter  if  he  were  convicted  for  the 
taking  of  another  life  than  that  of  Spider  Webb!  It 
lwas  like  some  grim,  retributive  proxy!  The  Spider,  at 
least,  had  not  been  too  late — for  that ! 

For  a  moment  longer,  Jimmie  Dale  sat  there,  staring 
at  the  papers  in  his  hand.    They  were  unsigned,  the 


146       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

Spider's  name  nowhere  appeared — the  Spider  had  been 
crafty  enough  to  deal  only  with  crimes  in  which  he  had 
had  no  personal  share.  There  was  nothing1,  not  even 
handwriting,  as  the  papers  now  stood,  to  intimate  that 
they  had  emanated  from  the  Spider;  and  therefore,  in 
their  disclosure,  there  could  be  no  suspicion  in  the  Wolf's 
mind  that  they  bore  any  relation  to  this  night's  work.  Nor 
would  the  Wolf,  tried  for  another  crime,  ever  mention 
this  night's  work.  It  would  be  the  last  thing  the  Wolf 
would  do.  The  Wolf  had  double-crossed  the  under- 
world, and  the  underworld,  if  it  found  it  out,  would  not 
easily  forgive — and  even  in  a  death  cell,  clinging  to  the 
hope  of  commutation  of  sentence,  the  Wolf  would  never 
run  the  risk  of  his  additional  guilt  of  the  Spider's  mur- 
der leaking  out  The  role  of  "Smarlinghue"  in  the 
underworld  was  safe. 

And  now  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  twitched  queerly.  The 
papers  were  unsigned.  He  took  from  the  leather  girdle 
the  thin  metal  box,  the  tweezers,  and  a  diamond-shaped, 
adhesive,  gray  paper  seal — and,  holding  the  seal  with  the 
tweezers,  he  moistened  it  with  his  tongue,  and  pressed 
it  down  upon  the  lower  sheet.  It  was  signed  now) 
Signed  with  a  signature  that  the  police — and  the  Wolf — 
knew  well ! 

He  rose  unsteadily,  and,  taking  the  empty  cash-box, 
loosened  the  base-board  from  the  wall  near  the  door,  hid 
the  cash-box  away,  and  felt  through  the  pockets  of  his 
evening  clothes — there  was  a  blank  envelope  there,  he 
remembered,  in  which  he  had  placed  some  memoranda — 
an  envelope,  and  the  little  gold  pencil  in  his  dress  waist1 
coat  pocket.  He  found  them,  and,  kneeling  on  the  floor, 
printing  the  letters,  he  addressed  the  envelope  to  police 
headquarters,  folded  and  placed  the  documents  inside, 
and  sealed  the  envelope. 


THE  CHASE  147 

He  replaced  the  base-board,  and  stood  up— but  his 
hand  caught  at  the  wall  to  support  himself. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  weakly — he  was 
groping  his  way  back  across  the  room  to  the  cot.  "I — I 
guess  I'm  all — all  in — to-night." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  VOICES  OF  THE  UNDERWORLD* 

FUTILITY !  And  on  top  of  futility,  a  week  of  inac- 
tion, thanks  to  that  flesh  wound  in  his  leg.  Futility 
seemed  to  haunt,  yes,  and  torture  him!  Even  his  re- 
habilitation of  Larry  the  Bat,  with  all  its  attendant  risk 
and  danger,  had  been  futile  as  far  as  she  was  concerned. 
And  he  had  counted  so  much  on  that!  And  that  had 
failed,  and  nothing  was  left  to  him  but  to  pursue  again 
the  one  possible  chance  of  success,  the  hope  that  some- 
where in  the  innermost  depths  of  the  Bad  Lands  he  might 
pick  up  the  clue  he  sought.  And  so,  to-night,  he  was 
listening  again  to  the  voices  of  the  underworld — and  so 
far  he  had  heard  nothing  but  ominous  mutterings,  proof 
that  the  sordid  denizens  of  crimeland  were  more  than 
usually  disturbed.  The  Wolf  had  gone  to  join  his  friend 
Frenchy  Virat  in  the  Tombs?  The  twisted  lips  of  the 
underworld  whispered  the  name  of  the  Gray  Seal! 

Jimrnie  Dale's  fingers,  twitching,  simulating  even  in 
that  little  detail  the  drug-wrecked  role  of  Smarlinghue 
that  he  played,  clutched  with  a  sort  of  hideous  eagerness 
at  the  hypodermic  syringe  which  he  held  in  his  hands. 
How  many  times,  here  in  Foo  Sen's,  or  in  other  lairs  that 
were  but  the  counterpart  of  Foo  Sen's,  had  he  lain, 
stretched  out,  a  pretended  victim  to  a  vice  that  robbed 
his  face  of  colour,  that  shook  his  miserably  clad  body, 
that  clouded  his  eyes  and  stole  from  them  the  light  of 
reason — while  he  listened!  How  many  times — and  how 

148 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  UNDERWORLD    149 

many  times  in  the  days  to  come  would  he  do  it  again! 
Would  it  never  be  his,  the  secret  that  he  sought — the 
clue  that  would  divulge  the  identity  of  those  who  threat- 
ened the  Tocsin's  life;  those  who,  like  human  wolves, 
like  a  hell-pack  snarling  for  its  prey,  had  driven  her 
again  into  hiding  and  made  of  her  a  hunted  thing! 

The  fingers  closed  convulsively  over  the  hypodermic. 
Wolves!  A  hell-pack!  A  tinge  of  red  dyed  the  grey- 
white,  hollowed  cheeks,  as  a  surge  of  fury  swept  upon 
him.  No,  it  was  not  futility ;  no,  it  was  not  wasted  effort 
—this  haunting  of  the  dens  of  the  underworld!  In  his 
soul  he  knew  that  some  day  he  would  pick  up  the  trail 
of  that  hell-pack  and  those  human  wolves — and  when 
that  some  day  came  it  would  be  a  day  of  reckoning,  and 
the  price  that  he  would  exact  would  not  be  small ! 

He  lay  back  on  the  bunk  that  Foo  Sen  had  ingratiat- 
ingly allotted  him.  The  air  was  close,  heavy  with  the 
sweet,  sickish  smell  of  opium,  and  full  of  low,  strange 
sounds  and  noises.  And  these  sounds,  in  their  com- 
posite sense,  emanating  from  unseen  sources,  were  as 
the  ominous  and  sinister  evidence  of  some  foul  and  gro- 
tesque presence ;  analysed,  they  resolved  themselves  into 
the  swish  of  hangings,  the  swish  of  slippered,  shuffling 
feet,  the  stertorous  breathing  of  a  sleeper,  the  clink  of 
coin  as  of  men  at  play,  the  tinkle  of  glass,  the  murmur 
of  voices,  the  restive  stir  of  reclining  bodies,  whisperings. 

And  now  he  looked  about  him  through  half  closed  eyes. 
He  was  in  a  little  compartment,  whose  doorway  was  a 
faded  and  stained  hanging  of  flowered  cretonne,  and 
whose  walls  were  but  flimsy-boarded  affairs  that  parti- 
tioned him  off  from  like  compartments  on  either  side. 
It  was  very  near  to  the  pulse  of  the  underworld.  Above 
ground,  opening  on  a  street  just  off  Chatham  Square,  Foo 
Sen's,  to  the  uninitiated,  was  but  one  of  the  multitudinous 
Chinese  laundiies  in  New  York;  below,  below  even  1>& 


150       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

innocent  cellar  of  the  house,  a  half  dozen  sub-cellars 
were  merged  into  one,  and  here  Foo  Sen  plied  his  trade. 
And  Foo  Sen  was  cosmopolitan  in  his  wares!  Here, 
one,  hard  pressed,  might  find  refuge  from  the  law ;  here 
a  pipe  and  pill  were  at  one's  command ;  here  one  might 
hide  his  stolen  goods,  or  hatch  his  projected  crime,  or 
gamble,  or  debauch  at  will — it  was  the  entree  only  that 
was  hard  to  obtain  at  Foo  Sen's ! 

Jimmie  Dale's  lips  twisted  in  a  grim  smile.  The  old 
days  of  Larry  the  Bat  had  supplied  Smarlinghue  with 
the  means  which,  in  the  last  six  months,  had  been  turned 
to  such  good  account  that  the  Smarlinghue  of  to-day  was 
almost  as  fully  in  the  confidence  of  the  underworld  as 
had  been  the  Larry  the  Bat  of  yesterday.  And  yet  there 
had  been  nothing!  No  clue!  He  had  wormed  himself 
again  into  the  inner  circle  of  crimeland;  he  lay  here  in 
Foo  Sen's  to-night,  as  he  had  once  lain  in  one  of  Foo 
Sen's  competitor's  dives  as  Larry  the  Bat,  months  ago> 
on  the  night  the  place  had  been  raided — but  there  wa3 
still  nothing — still  no  clue — only  the  shuffle  of  slippered 
feet,  the  stertorous  breathings,  a  subdued  curse,  a  bias* 
phemous  laugh,  a  coin  ringing  upon  a  table  top,  the 
murmur  of  voices,  whisperings ! 

One  might  hear  many  things  here  if  one  listened,  and 
he  had  heard  many  things  in  his  frequent  visits  to  these 
hidden  dens  of  this  lower  world  that  shunned  the  day- 
light— many  things,  but  never  the  one  thing  that  he  risked 
his  life  to  hear — many  things,  from  these  friends  of  his 
who,  if  in  Smarlinghue  they  but  suspected  for  an  instant 
the  presence  of  Larry  the  Bat,  would  literally  have  torn 
him  limb  from  limb- — many  things,  but  never  the  one 
thing,  never  a  word  of  her — many  things,  the  hatching  of 
crime,  as  now,  for  instance,  those  muttering  voices  were 
hatching  it  from  the  other  iide  of  the  partition  next  to  his 
bunk. 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  UNDERWORLD     151 

Subconsciously  he  had  caught  a  word  here  and  there, 
«tnd  now,  without  a  sound,  he  edged  his  shoulders  nearer 
to  the  partition  until  his  ear  was  pressed  close  against  a 
crack.  It  did  not  concern  her,  but  he  listened  now 
intently. 

"Aw,  f erget  it !"  a  voice  rasped  in  a  hoarse  undertone. 
'Sure,  I  saw  it!  Ain't  I  just  told  youse  I  saw  Curley 
hand  de  dough  over  dis  afternoon!  Fifteen  thousand 
dollars  all  in  big  new  bills,  five-hundred-dollar  bills  I 
t'ink  dey  was — dat's  wot !" 

"How  d'youse  know  it  was  fifteen  thousand?"  de- 
manded another  voice. 

There  was  a  short,  vicious  laugh;  then  the  voice  of 
the  first  speaker  again:  •  «•>• 

"  'Cause  I  heard  him  say  so,  an*  de  old  guy  counted  it, 
an*  sealed  it  up  in  an  envelope,  an'  gave  Curley  a  receipt, 
an'  tucked  de  green  boys  into  de  safe.  Aw,  say,  dere's 
fcothin'  to  it,  I  can  open  dat  old  tin  box  wid  a  toothpick  1" 

"Mabbe  youse  can,  but  mabbe  de  stuff  ain't  dere  now 
'  —mabbe  it's  in  de  bank,"  demurred  the  second  voice. 

"Don't  youse  worry !  It's  dere !  Where  else  would  it 
te !  Ain't  I  told  youse  it  was  near  five  o'clock  when  I 
went  dere — an'  dat's  after  de  banks  are  closed,  ain't  it? 
Well,  wot  d'youse  say?" 

"I  don't  like  pinchin'  any  of  Curley's  money."  The  sec- 
ond speaker's  voice  was  still  further  lowered.  "It  ain't 
healthy  ter  hand  Curley  anything." 

"Who's  handin'  Curley  anything!"  retorted  the  other. 
"It  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  wid  Curley.  It  ain't  Curley's 
money  any  more.  He  paid  it  over  for  whatever  he's 
blowin'  himself  on,  an'  he's  got  his  receipt  for  it.  It's 
none  of  his  funeral  after  dat!  How's  he  goin'  to  lose 
anything  if  we  lift  de  cash?  An'  if  he  ain't  goin'  to  lose 
nothin',  wot's  he  goin'  to  care!  Ferget  it!  Wot's  de 
matter  wid  youse!" 


There  was  a  moment's  apparent  hesitancy;  then, 
hoarsely : 

"Youse  are  sure,  eh,  dat  nobody  saw  youse  dere?" 

"Say,  youse  have  got  de  chilly  feet  fer  fair  ter-night, 
ain't  youse!  Well,  can  it!  No,  dey  didn't  pipe  me, 
youse  can  bet  yer  life  on  dat.  I  was  goin'  inter  de  office 
w'en  I  hears  some  spielin'  goin'  on  inside,  an'  I  opens  de 
door  a  crack,  an'  I  keeps  it  open  like  dat — savvy?  An' 
w'en  de  old  guy  shoots  de  ready  inter  de  box,  an'  I 
makes  me  fade-away,  I  didn't  shut  de  door  hard  enough 
ter  bust  de  glass  panels,  neither — see?  Dat's  de  story, 
an'  it's  on  de  level.  I  beats  it  den,  an'  I  been  huntin'  fer 
youse  ever  since.  Now,  wot  d'youse  say — are  youse  on  ?" 

"Sure !"  The  second  speaker's  voice  had  lost  its  hesi- 
tancy now ;  it  was  gruff,  assured,  even  eager.  "Sure  1  I 
guess  youse  have  pulled  a  winner,  all  right!  Wot's  de 
lay  ?  Have  youse  doped  it  out  ?" 

"Ask  me!"  responded  the  other,  with  a  complacent 
chuckle.  "Youse  look  after  de  old  guy,  dat's  all  youse 
have  ter  do.  Hook  up  wid  him,  an'  keep  him  busy  at  his 
house.  Get  me?  De  old  nut  has  a  crazy  notion  of  goin' 
down  ter  de  office  in  de  middle  of  de  night  sometimes, 
an'  dere's  no  use  takin'  any  chances.  Youse  can  put  up 
some  hard  luck  story  on  him,  throw  in  a  weep,  an'  youse 
got  his  goat  fer  as  long  as  youse  can  talk.  Leave  de  rest 
ter  me.  Only,  say,  youse  keep  away  from  me  fer  de 
rest  of  de  night — get  me  ?  Dey  might  smell  a  plant  after 
youse  bein'  wid  him.  Youse  go  somewhere  to  an  all- 
night  joint  so's  youse  have  an  alibi  all  de  way  through, 
an' " 

The  voice  ceased  abruptly.  In  a  flash  the  left  sleeve 
of  Jimmie  Dale's  ragged,  threadbare  coat  was  pushed  up, 
leaving  the  forearm  exposed.  The  hypodermic  needle 
pricked  the  flesh.  There  was  no  sound  of  any  step ;  but 
the  cretonne  hanging  wavered  almost  imperceptibly,  as 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  UNDERWORLD     15S 

though  some  one,  or  perhaps  but  a  current  of  air  from 
the  passage  without,  had  swayed  it  slightly.  Jimmie 
Dale  was  mumbling  incoherently  to  himself  now;  his 
lips,  like  his  fingers,  working  in  nervous  twitches.  A  few 
seconds  passed — a  half  minute.  Still  mumbling,  Jimmie 
Dale,  with  a  caress  like  that  of  a  miser  for  his  gold,  was 
fondling  the  shining  little  instrument  in  his  hand — and 
then  the  hanging  was  suddenly  thrust  aside. 

Jimmie  Dale  neither  looked  up,  nor  appeared  to  be 
conscious  of  any  one's  presence — but  he  had  already  rec- 
ognised the  voices  of  the  two  men  from  the  adjoining 
compartment,  who,  he  was  quite  well  aware,  were  staring 
in  at  him  now.  The  smaller,  with  sharp,  cunning,  beady, 
black  eyes,  the  prime  mover  in  the  scheme  that  had  just 
been  outlined,  was  a  clever  and  dangerous  "box-worker," 
known  as  the  Rat ;  the  other,  a  heavy,  vicious-faced  man, 
with  eyes  quite  as  beady  and  unpleasant  as  those  of  his 
companion,  was  Muggy  Ladd,  who  made  his  living  as  a 
"stagehand"  for  those,  such  as  the  Rat,  who  were  more 
gifted  than  himself. 

"Satisfied?"  inquired  the  Rat.  "He's  full  up  to  de 
eyes  wid  it  now.  Foo  said  he'd  been  hittin'  it  up  hard 
fer  de  last  hour."  The  Rat  addressed  Jimmie  Dale. 
"Hello,  Smarly !"  he  called  out. 

Jimmie  Dale  lifted  his  head,  and  blinked  at  the  cre- 
tonne hanging. 

"Lemme  alone !"  he  complained  thickly.  "Go  'way,  an' 
lemme  alone !" 

"Sure !"  said  the  Rat  genially.  "Sure,  we  will !  Sweet 
dreams,  Smarly!" 

The  hanging  fell  back  into  place.  Jimmie  Dale  con- 
tinued to  blink  at  it,  and  mumble  to  himself.  The  Rat's 
pleasant  little  plan  of  robbing  somebody's  safe  of  fifteen 
thousand  dollars  had  nothing  to  do  with  her — but  it  in- 
volved a  moral  obligation  on  his  part  that  he  had  neither 


154       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  right  nor  the  intention  to  ignore.  And  the  fulfilment, 
or  the  attempt  at  fulfilment,  of  that  obligation  had  sud- 
denly assumed  unexpected  difficulties.  Even  while  he 
had  listened,  and  before  the  Rat  was  halfway  through  his 
story,  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  conscious  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  the  Rat  would  rob  no  safe  of  fifteen  thou- 
sand dollars  that  night  if  he  could  prevent  it,  and  he  had 
intended  following  the  Rat  from  Foo  Sen's.  He  dared 
not  do  that  now.  Muggy  Ladd's  cautiousness,  that  had 
evidently  induced  the  Rat  to  inspect  his,  Jimmie  Dale's, 
compartment,  had  made  that  impossible.  The  Rat  had 
seen  him  there;  and,  forced  to  the  deception  in  order  to 
avert  any  suspicion  that  he  had  overheard  the  others' 
conversation,  the  Rat  had  seen  him  in  the  condition  of 
one  who  was  apparently  already  far  gone  under  the  influ- 
ence of  drug.  To  risk  the  attempt  to  follow  the  Rat  now, 
to  risk  discovery  by  the  Rat,  was  to  risk,  not  only  the 
admission  that  he  had  been  playing  a  part,  but  to  risk 
what  he  had  fought  for  and  staked  his  life  for  months 
now  to  establish — the  role,  the  character  of  "Smarling- 
hue"  in  the  underworld.  Nor,  for  the  same  reason, 
would  he  dare  move  from  the  place  for  some  little  time—- 
there was  Foo  Sen  and  the  attendants. 

Jimmie  Dale  dropped  his  head  down  on  the  bunk, 
turned  heavily  over,  facing  the  partition,  and  flung  his 
arm  across  his  face.  His  lips  had  ceased  their  nervous 
working;  they  were  drawn  together,  thin  and  hard  now. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  be  forced  to  remain  temporarily 
inactive,  though  that  in  itself  was  not  so  serious,  for  it 
was  still  early,  not  much  more  than  nine  o'clock,  and  it 
was  only  fair  to  presume  that  the  Rat  would  make  no 
move  for  some  hours  to  come ;  but  what  was  much  more 
serious  was  the  fact  that,  unable  to  follow  the  Rat,  he 
would  be  obliged  to  solve  for  himself  the  problem  of 
whose  was  the  safe,  and  whose  the  fifteen  thousand  dol- 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  UNDERWORLD     155 

lars  that  was  the  Rat's  objective.  The  Rat  had  referred 
to  "the  old  guy" — that  meant  nothing.  "Curley,"  how- 
ever, was  a  little  better — Curley,  who  had  paid  over  the 
money  to  the  "old  guy." 

Jimmie  Dale's  forehead,  hidden  by  his  arm,  furrowed 
deeply.  From  Muggy  Ladd's  initial  objection  to  touch- 
ing anything  that  concerned  Curley,  it  could  mean  only 
one  Curley.  Pie,  Jimmie  Dale,  knew  this  Curky  by  sight, 
and,  slightly,  by  reputation.  Curley  and  his  partner, 
Haines,  kept  a  small  wholesale  liquor  store  in  one  of  t1^ 
most  populous,  where  all  were  populous,  quarters  of  the 
East  Side;  also  Curley  had  a  pull  as  a  ward  politician, 
which  might  very  readily  account  for  Muggy  Ladd's  diffi- 
dence; and  Curley  was  credited  with  doing  a  thriving 
business — both  ways — as  ward  heeler  and  liquor  pur- 
veyor. Certainly,  at  least,  he  was  known  always  to  have 
money;  and  had  even  been  known  at  times  to  lend  it 
freely  to  those  in  want — for  a  consideration.  Yes,  it  was 
undoubtedly  and  unquestionably  Curley,  of  Haines  & 
Curley,  familiarly  known  on  the  East  Side  as  Reddy 
Curley  from  his  flaming  red  hair — but  to  whom  had 
Curley  paid  over  the  sum  of  fifteen  thousand  dollars  ? 

For  a  moment  the  frown  on  Jimmie  Dale's  forehead 
deepened,  then  he  nodded  his  head  quickly.  If  he  could 
find  Curley,  or  Haines,  or  even  Patsy  Maries,  the  clerk 
who  worked  in  the  liquor  store — which  might  possibly 
still  be  open  for  another  hour  or  so  yet — it  should  not, 
after  all,  and  without  even  any  undue  inquisitiveness  on 
the  part  of  Smarlinghue,  prove  very  difficult  to  obtain  the 
necessary  information,  for,  if  Curley  had  been  in  a  deal 
involving  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  he  was  much  more 
likely  to  be  boastful  than  reticent  about  it.  It  resolved 
itself  then,  after  all,  into  simply  a  matter  of  time. 

Whisperings,  a  raucous  laugh,  a  curse,  the  clink  of 
toin,  the  rattle  of  dice,  the  scuffle  of  slippered  feet,  the 


156       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

low  swish  of  the  loose-garbed  Chinese  attendants  went 
on  interminably.  Jimmie  Dale  began  to  toss  uneasily 
from  side  to  side  of  his  bunk,  and  began  to  mumble 
audibly  again.  Perhaps  half  an  hour  passed,  during 
which,  from  time  to  time,  the  curtain  of  the  compartment 
was  drawn  quietly  aside  and  the  impassive  face  of  one 
or  other  of  the  Chinese  attendants  was  thrust  through 
the  opening — and  then  suddenly  Jimmie  Dale  raised  him- 
self up  on  his  elbow,  and  pointed  a  shaking  finger  at  one 
cr  these  apparitions. 

"Foo  Sen" — he  licked  his  lips  as  he  spoke — "you  tell 
Foo  Sen  come  here !" 

The  face  disappeared,  and  a  moment  later  another— 
the  wizened,  yellow  face  of  a  little  old  Chinaman — took 
its  place. 

"You  wantee  me,  Smarly'oo?"  inquired  the  proprietot 
suavely. 

"Tell  'cm  to  help  me  out  of  this."  Jimmie  Dale  essayed 
vainly  to  rise,  and  fell  back  on  the  bunk.  "D'ye  hear, 
Foo  Sen — tell  'em !  Coin'  home !" 

"Alice  same  bletter  stay  sleep  him  off,"  advised  Foo 
Sen. 

Jimmie  Dale  succeeded  in  sitting  upright  on  the  edge 
of  the  bunk — and  snarled  at  the  other. 

"You  mind  your  own  business,  Foo  Sen !"  he  flung  out 
gutturally.  "Coin'  home!  Tell  'em  to  help  me  out— - 
sleep  where  I  like !  Makes  me  sick  here — rotten  smell — 
rotten  punk  sticks !" 

"You  allee  same  fool,"  commented  Foo  Sen  imper- 
turbably,  as  he  clapped  his  hands.  "Mabbe  you  no  get 
home ;  mabbe  you  get  run  in  police  cell  sleep  him  off,  in- 
stead. That  your  business,  you  likee  that — all  right !" 

Foo  Sen  smiled  placidly,  and  was  gone. 

An  instant  later,  Jimmie  Dale,  his  arms  twined  around 
the  necks  of  two  Chinamen,  and  leaning  heavily  upon 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  UNDERWORLD     157 

them,  and  stumbling  as  he  walked,  was  being  conducted 
through  a  maze  of  dark  and  narrow  passages  that  grad- 
ually trended  upward  to  a  higher  level — and  presently  a 
door  closed  behind  him,  and  he  was  in  the  open  air. 

It  was  dark  about  him,  not  even  the  glimmer  of  a  win- 
dow light  showed  from  anywhere — but  in  Foo  Sen's  there 
were  eyes  that  saw  through  the  darkness,  and  his  prog- 
ress, alone  now,  was  both  unsteady  and  slow.  He  was 
in  a  very  narrow  alleyway  between  two  houses — one  of 
the  several  hidden  entrances  to  Foo  Sen's.  The  alley 
opened  in  one  direction  on  a  lane,  in  the  other  direction 
on  the  street.  Jimmie  Dale  chose  the  direction  of  the 
lane,  reached  the  lane,  and,  still  stumbling  and  lurching, 
made  his  way  along  for  a  distance  of  possibly  fifty  yards ; 
then,  well  clear  of  the  neighbourhood  of  Foo  Sen's,  he 
began  to  quicken  his  pace — and  twenty  minutes  later, 
frowning  in  disappointment,  he  was  standing  in  front  of 
Reddy  Curley's  liquor  store,  only  to  find  that  the  place 
was  already  closed  for  the  flight. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  THE  SANCTUARY 

IT  was  ten  o'clock  now,  an  hour  since  the  Rat  and 
Muggy  Ladd  had  left  Foo  Sen's.  Again  Jimmie  Dale 
told  himself  that  it  was  still  early,  that  the  Rat  would 
wait  for  a  much  later  hour — but  at  the  same  time 
he  acknowledged  to  himself  a  sense  of  growing  and  pre- 
monitory uneasiness.  Certainly,  in  any  case,  he  had  no 
time  to  lose.  He  turned  quickly  and  hurried  along  the 
block  that  separated  him  from  the  Bowery — he  had  a 
fair  idea  of  the  haunts  usually  frequented  in  the  evening 
by  the  men  he  sought,  and,  even  failing  to  find  the  men 
themselves,  there  was  always  the  chance,  and  a  very  good 
one,  that,  where  Curley  was  known,  Curley's  fifteen 
thousand  dollar  deal  might  be  the  subject  of  gossip  which 
would  answer  his,  Jimmie  Dale's,  purpose  quite  as  well. 
But  an  hour  went  by — and  yet  another.  Midnight 
came — and  midnight  had  brought  him  nothing.  It  seemed 
as  though  he  had  combed  the  East  Side  from  end  to  end, 
and  he  had  found  neither  Curley,  nor  Haines,  nor  Patsy 
Maries — nor  had  he  heard  anything — nor  had  such 
guarded  questions  as  he  had  dared  to  ask  without  involv- 
ing possible  disastrous  consequences  to  "Smarlinghue," 
should  the  Rat,  after  all,  succeed  and  hear  of  his  activi- 
ties, had  any  result.  And  then,  still  maintaining  his 
efforts  with  dogged  determination,  though  conscious  now 
that  with  the  hour  so  late  he  might  perhaps  better  return 
to  the  Sanctuary,  change,  say,  into  the  clothes  of  Jimmie 


IN  THE  SANCTUARY  159 

Dale,  and,  crediting  the  Rat  with  already  having  made  a 
successful  inroad  on  the  safe,  devote  his  energies  to  run- 
ning down  the  Rat,  and,  if  possible,  to  salvaging  the 
plunder,  he  was  in  the  act  of  entering  again  one  of  the 
dance  halls  he  had  already  visited  earlier  in  the  evening, 
when  one  of  the  men  he  was  searching  for  lurched  out 
through  the  doorway.  It  was  Patsy  Maries,  garrulous, 
drunk,  exceedingly  unsteady  on  his  feet,  and  accom- 
panied by  three  or  four  companions.  They  crowded  out 
past  Jimmie  Dale,  and  gathered  aimlessly  on  the  pave- 
ment. Maries'  voice  rose  in  earnest  insobriety  for  what 
was  very  probably  by  no  means  the  first  time. 

"Betcher  life!  Spot  cash — fifteen  thousand — spot; 
cash !  Sure,  I  saw  it !  Only — hie ! — got  one  boss  now. 
Little  ol'  Reddy  got  the — hie ! — papers  from  lawyer  'saf- 
ternoon.  Know  ol'  Grenville,  don't  you — that's  him — ol* 
Grenville.  Come  on,  whatsh's  use  standin'  round  here 
doin'  nothin' !" 

Jimmie  Dale  did  not  enter  the  dance  hall — instead, 
scuffling  hurriedly  along  to  the  next  corner,  he  turned  off 
the  Bowery,  and,  choosing  the  darker  and  more  dimly 
lighted  streets  and.  at  times,  a  lane  or  alleyway,  broke 
into  a  run.  In  the  space  of  a  little  more  than  a  second 
he  had  at  last  obtained  the  information  that  he  had 
searched  for  vainly  for  over  two  hours.  There  seemed 
something  mockingly  ironical  in  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
obliged  to  search  for  those  two  hours !  What  had  hap- 
pened in  that  time?  Two  hours!  It  was  three  hours 
now  since  the  Rat  had  left  Foo  Sen's ! 

He  shook  his  head  with  sudden  impatience  at  himself. 
He  would  gain  nothing  by  speculating  on  possibilities  f 
He  had  the  information  now.  The  one  thing  to  do  was 
to  act  upon  it.  So  it  was  old  Grenville's  safe!  Old 
Grenville,  the  lawyer ;  honest  old  Grenville,  the  East  Side- 
called  him.  the  one  man,  perhaps,  w.hose  word  was  ac-« 


160       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

cepted  at  its  face  value,  and  who  was  both  liked  and 
trusted  everywhere  in  the  Bad  Lands — because  he  was 
honest !  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  tightened  as  he  ran.  It  was 
more  than  ordinarily  dirty  work,  then,  on  the  Rat's  part. 
Grenville  was  an  old  man,  close  to  seventy,  at  a  guess; 
and  if  any  one  had  earned  immunity  from  the  depreda- 
tions of  the  underworld  it  was  this  curious  and  lovable 
old  character — honest  Grenville.  The  man  was  not  a 
criminal  lawyer,  he  had  made  no  enemies  even  in  that 
way ;  he  was  more  a  paternal  family  solicitor,  as  it  were, 
to  the  dregs  of  humanity  that  had  crowded  his  queer  and 
dingy  office  now,  so  report  had  it,  for  over  forty  years. 
He  was  credited  with  having  amassed  a  little  money,  not 
a  fortune  perhaps,  for  there  were  many  fees  never  col- 
lected and  never  asked  for  amongst  the  needy,  but  enough 
to  live  comfortably  on  in  the  simple  and  unpretentious 
way  in  which  old  Grenville  lived. 

Yes,  it  was  dirty  work — miserable,  dirty  work,  the 
work  of  a  hound  and  a  cur!  And  the  Rat's  logic  was 
unassailable.  From  Patsy  Maries'  maudlin  babbling  it 
was  evident  that  Reddy  Curley  had  bought  Haines,  his 
partner,  out ;  that  the  price  was  fifteen  thousand  dollars ; 
and  that  Grenville,  acting  for  Haines  obviously,  had  re- 
ceived the  purchase  money  from  Curley,  and  in  return 
had  handed  over  what  the  Rat  had  taken  to  be  a  receipt, 
but  what  was  probably  in  reality  much  more  likely  to 
have  been  a  Bill  of  Sale.  But  in  either  case,  it  was 
neither  Curley  nor  Haines  who  would  suffer — it  was  old 
Grenville,  who,  if  the  funds  were  stolen  and  not  re- 
covered, would  have  to  make  the  amount  good  out  of  his 
own  pocket,  and  who,  as  all  who  knew  old  Grenville 
knew  well,  would  unhesitatingly  do  so  at  once  if  it  took 
the  last  cent  that  pocket  held. 

Jimmie  Dale  had  halted  before  a  small  building  on  one 
of  the  cross  streets  near  the  upper  end  of  the  Bowery. 


IN  THE  SANCTUARY  161 

There  were  some  half  dozen  signs  on  the  doorway,  for 
the  most  part  time  worn  and  shabby,  amongst  them  that 
of  Henry  Grenville,  Attorney-at-Law. 

There  were  no  lights  in  any  of  the  windows,  but 
Jimmie  Dale,  as  he  tried  the  door,  found  it  unlocked,  and, 
opening  it  noiselessly,  stepped  inside.  Here,  a  single 
incandescent  suspended  over  the  stair  well  gave  a  murky 
illumination  to  the  surroundings.  A  narrow  corridor, 
dotted  with  office  doors,  was  on  his  left;  the  stairway — «• 
there  was  no  elevator — was  directly  in  front  of  him.  He 
stood  motionless  for  an  instant,  listening.  There  was  no 
sound.  He  moved  forward  then,  as  silent  as  the  silence 
around  him,  and  began  to  mount  the  stairs.  Old  Gren- 
ville's  office,  he  knew,  was  at  the  rear  of  the  corridor  on 
the  first  landing. 

It  was  after  midnight  now,  quite  a  little  after  midnight. 
Jimmie  Dale's  fingers,  in  the  right-hand  pocket  of  his 
tattered  coat,  closed  over  the  stock  of  his  automatic. 
Still  no  sound !  Was  he  too  late  to  forestall  the  Rat ;  or, 
by  no  means  an  unlikely  possibility,  was  the  Rat  there 
now ;  or  was — a  low,  muttered  exclamation,  that  mingled 
surprise  and  bewilderment,  came  suddenly  from  Jimmie 
Dale's  lips.  He  had  reached  the  landing,  and  here,  from 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  he  could  see  a  dull  yellow  glow 
thrown  out  into  the  corridor  through  the  glass  panel  of 
the  lawyer's  door. 

An  instant's  pause,  and  then,  chagrined,  the  sense  of 
defeat  upon  him,  he  moved  forward  again  as  silently  as 
before.  He  reached  the  door  and  crouched  beside  it.  \ 
murmur  of  voices  came  to  him  from  within.  Jimmie 
Dale's  lips  parted  in  grim  irony.  The  game  was  up,  of 
course,  but  he  was  occupying  precisely  the  same  coign 
of  vantage  that,  according  to  the  Rat,  the  Rat  had  occu- 
pied that  afternoon,  and  if  the  Rat  had  been  able,  undis- 
covered, to  see  and  hear,  then  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  could  do 


162       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  same.  The  slim,  tapering,  sensitive  fingers  closed  on 
the  doorknob — a  thin  ray  of  light  began  to  steal  through 
between  the  door-edge  and  the  jamb — and  grew  wider — 
and  the  voices,  from  a  confused  murmur,  became  dis- 
tinct. And  now,  through  the  narrow  crack  of  the  slightly 
opened  door,  he  could  see  inside;  and  he  could  see  that, 
as  he  had  already  realised,  he  was  too  late,  very  much 
too  late,  in  time  only,  as  it  were,  for  the  post-mortem 
of  the  affair — even  the  police  were  already  on  the  spot! 

It  was  a  curious  scene!  A  rickety  old  railing  across 
the  middle  of  the  musty,  bare-floored  room  served  to 
indicate  that  the  space  beyond  was  the  old  lawyer's  "pri- 
vate" office.  And  here,  inside  the  railing,  a  desk,  or, 
rather,  a  great,  flat,  deal  table,  spread  with  a  red,  ink- 
stained  cloth,  was  littered  with  books  and  papers;  while 
behind  the  table,  again,  stood  a  huge,  old-fashioned  safe, 
its  door  swung  wide  open,  its  erstwhile  contents  scattered 
in  disorder  about  the  floor. 

Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  swept  the  interior  of  the  room  with 
a  single,  quick,  comprehensive  glance — and  then,  nar- 
rowed, travelled  from  one  to  another  of  the  faces  of  the 
four  men  who  were  gathered  around  the  table.  He 
knew  them  all.  The  stocky,  grizzle-haired  man  in  the 
centre  was  a  plain-clothes  man  from  headquarters,  named 
Barlow ;  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table  Reddy  Curley  and 
Haines,  his  partner,  faced  each  other,  Curley  drumming 
indifferently  with  his  fingers  on  the  table-top,  Haines 
scowling  and  chewing  his  lower  lip,  a  certain  coarse 
brutality  in  both  their  faces  that  was  neither  pleasant  nor 
inviting;  but  it  was  the  white-haired  old  man,  bent  of 
form,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  table,  upon  whom 
Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  lingered.  Old  Grenville !  The  man's 
hand,  as  he  raised  it  to  pass  it  across  his  eyes,  was  shak- 
ing palpably ;  his  face,  kindly  still  in  spite  of  its  worn  and 
haggard  expression,  was  pale  with  anxiety  and  strain. 


IN  THE  SANCTUARY  163 

Barlow  was  speaking : 

"You  say  there's  nothing  else  missing,  Mr.  Grenville, 
except  the  sealed  envelope  that  contained  the  fifteen 
thousand  dollars  given  you  by  Mr.  Curley  this  after- 
noon ?" 

The  old  lawyer  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  say,"  he  answered.  "As  I  told  you,  I  often 
come  here  at  night  to  work.  To-night  a  client  kept  me 
very  late  at  my  house,  so  it  was  only,  I  should  say,  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago  when  I  reached  here.  I  tele- 
phoned you  at  once,  and,  awaiting  your  arrival,  I  did  not 
disturb  anything,  so  I  have  not  examined  any  of  the 
papers  yet." 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  question  of  papers,"  observed  the 
Headquarters  man  dryly. 

"There  was  nothing  else  taken  then,"  decided  Grenville 
slowly ;  "for  there  was  no  other  money  in  the  safe  at  the 
time — in  fact,  I  rarely  keep  any  there." 

"Well  then,"  said  Barlow  crisply,  "it's  pretty  near  open 
and  shut  that  some  one  was  wise  to  that  fifteen  thousand 
being  there  to-night,  and  it  wasn't  just  a  lucky  haul  out 
of  any  old  safe  just  because  the  safe  looked  easy."  He 
turned  toward  Curley  and  Haines.  "Were  either  of  you 
talking  with  any  one  around  the  East  Side  to-night  who 
would  be  likely  to  make  a  tip  of  it,  or  pass  the  tip  along?" 

"We  weren't  there  at  all  to-night,"  Curley  replied. 
"Haines  and  I  were  out  in  my  car,  and  we'd  just  got  back 
when  you  picked  us  up  at  the  store  on  the  way  up  here* 
But,  at  that,  I  guess  you're  right.  We  didn't  make  any 
secret  about  it,  and  I  daresay  after  I'd  got  the  business 
tucked  away  safe  in  my  inside  pocket  this  afternoon" — he 
grinned  maliciously  at  Haines — "I  may  have  mentioned 
it  to  one  or  two." 

"Got  it  tucked  away  safe,  have  you?  Own  it,  do  you?" 
Haines  caught  him  up  truculently. 


164       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"Sure !"  Curley  had  wicked,  little  greenish-grey  eyes, 
and  their  stare  was  uninviting  as  he  fixed  them  on  his 
quondam  partner.  "If  you  want  to  grouch,  go  ahead  and 
grouch!  We've  been  pretty  good  friends  for  a  pretty 
good  number  of  years,  but  I  ain't  a  fool.  Sure,  it's  mine 
now!  I  didn't  ask  you  to  employ  Grenville,  did  I?  I 
was  satisfied  to  take  any  old  piece  of  paper  with  your 
fist  on  it,  saying  you'd  sold  out  to  me ;  but  no,  you  were 
for  having  the  thing  done  with  frills  on  it.  Well,  I'm 
still  satisfied !  I  came  here  at  five  o'clock  this  afternoon, 
and  paid  the  coin  over  to  your  attorney,  and  I  got  a  per- 
fectly good  little  Bill  of  Sale  for  it — and  that  lets  me 
out.  It's  up  to  you  and  your  Mister  Attorney.  Why 
don't  you  ask  him  what  he's  going  to  do  about  it,  instead 
of  trying  to  take  it  out  on  me  the  way  you've  been  doing 
ever  since  Barlow  told  us  what  had  happened,  and " 

"Mr.  Curley  is  perfectly  right,  Mr.  Haines" — the  old 
lawyer's  voice  was  quiet,  though  it  trembled  a  little. 
"The  title  to  the  business  is  now  vested  in  Mr.  Curley, 
and  you  are  entitled  to  look  to  me  for  compensation. 
I" — he  hesitated  an  instant — "I — I  hope  the  money  may 
be  recovered,  otherwise " 

"Eh?"  inquired  Mr.  Haines  sharply. 

"Otherwise,"  the  old  lawyer  went  on  with  an  effort, 
"I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  a  great  deal  of  difficulty  in 
raising  so  large  a  sum." 

"The  hell  you  are !"  said  Mr.  Haines  uncharitably,  and 
leaned  forward  over  the  table.  "Don't  try  to  come  that 
dodge!  Everybody  says  you're  well  fixed.  Everybody 
says  you've  got  a  neat  little  pile  salted  away." 

The  lawyer's  face  was  ashen,  and  his  lips  were  quiver- 
ing; but  there  was  a  fine  dignity  in  the  poise  of  the  old 
man's  head,  and  in  the  squared  shoulders. 

"Nevertheless,  I  am,  unfortunately,  telling  you  the 
truth,  in  spite  of  any  rumours,  or  public  belief  to  the 


IN  THE  SANCTUARY  165 

contrary,"  he  said  steadily.  "A  few  thousands,  a  very 
few,  is  all  I  have  ever  been  able  to  lay  aside.  Those  are 
at  your  disposal,  Mr.  Haines,  and  the  balance  I  promise 
to  procure  as  speedily  as  possible ;  but  in  plain  words,  if 
this  money  is  not  recovered,  and  I  do  not  say  this  to 
invite  either  sympathy  or  leniency,  but  because  you  have 
questioned  my  word,  I  shall  have  lost  everything  I  own." 

Mr.  Haines  scowled. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  know  you've  at  least  got  enough!" 
he  said  roughly.  "It  sure  will  surprise  a  whole  lot  of 
people  that  fifteen  thousand  wipes  Mr.  Henry  Grenville 
out!" 

A  flush  dyed  the  old  lawyer's  cheeks.  He  made  as 
though  to  speak — and,  instead,  turned  silently  away  from 
the  table,  his  back  to  the  others.  There  was  silence  in 
the  room  now  for  a  moment.  Again  Jimmie  Dale's  eyes 
travelled  swiftly  from  one  to  another  of  the  group — to 
Curley,  grinning  maliciously  at  his  ex-partner  again — to 
Haines,  gnawing  at  his  lower  lip,  and  scowling  blackly — > 
to  Barlow,  obviously  uncomfortable,  who  was  uneasily 
tracing  patterns  with  his  forefinger  on  the  top  of  the 
table — and  back  to  the  old  lawyer,  whose  shoulders  now, 
as  though  carrying  a  load  too  heavy  for  their  strength, 
had  drooped  pathetically,  and  into  whose  face,  in  spite 
of  a  brave  effort  at  self-control,  had  crept  a  wan  and 
miserable  despair. 

"Look  here !"  said  Barlow  gruffly.  "It  strikes  me  you 
can  settle  all  this  some  other  time.  It's  got  nothing  to 
do  with  the  guy  that  pulled  this  break,  and  I'm  losing 
time.  Headquarters  is  waiting  for  my  report.  You  two 
had  better  beat  it;  Mr.  Grenville  won't  mind,  I  guess — 
I've  got  your  end  of  the  story,  and " 

Jimmie  Dale  was  retreating  back  along  the  corridor— 
and  a  minute  later  he  was  in  the  street,  and  scuffling  along 
in  a  downtown  direction.  His  hands,  in  the  pockets  of 


166       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

his  tattered  coat,  were  clenched,  and  through  the  pallor 
of  Smarlinghue's  make-up  a  dull  red  burned  his  cheeks. 
Old  Grenville — and  the  Rat !  The  smile  that  found  lodg- 
ment on  Smarlinghue's  contorted  lips  was  mirthless. 
The  old  man  had  taken  it  like  the  gentleman  he  was.  He 
had  not  perhaps  hidden  the  quiver  of  the  lip — who  would 
at  seventy!  It  was  not  easy  to  begin  life  again  at 
seventy!  Old  Grenville — and  the  Rat!  Well,  the  game 
vras  not  played  out  yet!  There  would  be  an  accounting 
of  that  fifteen  thousand  dollars  before  the  morning  came, 
and,  as  between  old  Grenville  and  the  Rat,  it  might  not 
perhaps  be  old  Grenville  who  paid ! 

Hurrying  now,  running  through  lanes  and  alleyways  as 
he  had  come,  Jimmie  Dale  headed  for  the  Sanctuary.  It 
was  very  simple  now.  The  Rat,  his  work  completed, 
would  lay  very  low — asleep  probably,  in  the  innocent  sur- 
roundings of  his  own  room !  The  Rat  would  not  be  hard 
to  find.  It  was  necessary  only  that,  in  the  little  interview 
he  proposed  to  have  with  the  Rat,  "Smarlinghue"  should 
have  disappeared! 

He  reached  the  tenement  where,  for  months  now,  that 
ground  floor  room,  opening  on  the  small  and  dirty  court- 
yard in  the  rear,  had  been  his  refuge,  Smarlinghue's 
home  in  the  underworld,  glanced  quickly  up  and  down 
the  street  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  not  observed, 
then,  darting  into  the  dark  hallway,  he  crossed  it  silently, 
unlocked  the  Sanctuary  door,  stepped  through,  and  closed 
and  locked  the  door  behind  him.  Nor,  even  now,  did  he 
make  the  slightest  sound.  From  the  top-light,  high  up 
near  the  ceiling  and  far  above  the  little  French  window 
.whose  shade  was  drawn,  there  came  a  faint  and  timid 
streak  of  moonlight.  It  did  not  illuminate  the  room; 
it  but  lessened  the  degree  of  blackness,  as  it  were,  giving 
«*<  dim  and  shadowy  outline  to  objects  scattered  here  and 
there  about  the  room — and  to  a  darker  shadow  amongst 


IN  THE  SANCTUARY  16f 

those  other  shadows,  a  shadow  that  moved  swiftly  an4 
in  utter  silence,  a  shadow  that  was  Jimmie  Dale  at  work. 

No  one  had  seen  him  enter — not  that  there  should  be 
anything  strange  in  the  fact  that  Smarlinghue  should 
enter  Smarlinghue's  own  room,  but  it  would  not  be; 
Smarlinghue  who  went  away!  No  one  had  seen  him 
enter — it  was  vital  now  that  he  should  not  be  heard  moyx 
ing  around  the  room,  and  so  invite  the  chance  of  some 
aimless  caller  in  the  person  of  a  fellow-tenant,  for  it  was 
no  longer  Smarlinghue  who  would  be  found  there ! 

The  ragged  outer  garments  he  had  been  wearing  lay 
discarded  in  a  heap  on  the  floor,  close  to  that  section  of 
the  wall  near  the  door  where  the  base-board,  ingeniously 
movable,  would,  in  another  moment  or  so,  afford  them 
safe  hiding  until  such  time  as  "Smarlinghue"  should  re- 
appear in  person  again ;  from  the  nostrils,  from  beneath 
the  lips,  from  behind  the  ears,  the  tiny,  cleverly-inserted 
pieces  of  wax,  distorting  the  features,  had  vanished ;  and 
now,  over  the  cracked  basin  on  the  rickety  washstand,  the 
masterly-created  pallor  was  washed  rapidly  away — and 
the  thin,  hollow-cheeked,  emaciated  face  of  Smarlinghue, 
the  drug  fiend,  was  gone,  and  in  its  place,  clean-cut,  clear- 
eyed,  was  the  face  of  Jimmie  Dale,  clubman  and  mil- 
lionaire. 

He  smiled  a  little  whimsically,  a  little  wanly,  as  he 
stole  back  across  the  room.  It  was  a  strange  life,  a 
dangerous  life!  He  wondered  often  enough,  as  he  was 
wondering  now,  what  the  end  of  it  would  be — would  he 
find  the  Tocsin — or  would  he  find  death  at  the  hands  of 
the  underworld — or  judicial  murder  at  the  hands  of  the 
law  for  a  hundred  crimes  attributed  to  the  Gray  Seal! 
Crimes !  The  smile  grew  serious  and  wistful,  as  he  knelt 
on  the  floor  and  began  to  loosen  the  section  of  the  base- 
board in  front  of  him.  There  had  never  been  a  crime 
committed  by  the  Gray  Seal!  Yes,  it  was  strange, 


bizarre,  incredulous  even  to  himself  sometimes,  this  life 
of  his — the  strange  partnership  formed  so  long  ago  now 
with  her,  the  Tocsin,  who  had  prompted  those  "crimes" 
that  righted  a  wrong,  that  brought  sunlight  into  some  life 
where  there  had  been  gloom  before,  and  hope  where  there 
had  been  misery — and  the  love  that  had  come — and  then 
disaster  again,  and  her  disappearance — and  his  resumps 
tion  once  more  of  a  dual  life  and  a  role  in  the  under- 
world— and,  yes,  in  spite  of  her  own  danger,  those  "calls 
to  arms"  to  the  Gray  Seal  again  for  the  sake  of  others, 
while  she  refused,  through  love  for  him,  through  fear  of 
the  peril  that  it  would  bring  him,  help  for  herself. 

He  shook  his  head,  as,  the  base-board  removed  now,  he 
reached  into  the  hollow  beyond  for  the  neatly-folded,  ex- 
pensively-tailored tweeds  of  Jimmie  Dale.  She  was 
wrong  in  that.  Could  anything  add  to  the  peril  in  which 
he  lived,  as  it  was !  If  only  in  some  way  he  might  reach 
her,  see  her,  talk  to  her,  if  only  for  a  moment,  he  could 
make  her  see  that,  and  understand,  and 

A  low,  startled  cry  burst  suddenly  from  his  lips ;  he  felt 
the  blood  ebb  from  his  cheeks — and  surge  back  again  in 
a  burning,  mighty  tide.  It  was  dark,  he  could  not  see; 
but  those  wonderfully  sensitive  finger  tips,  that  were  ears 
and  eyes  to  Jimmie  Dale,  were  telegraphing  a  wild,  mad, 
amazing  message  to  his  brain.  The  Tocsin  had  been 
here — here  in  the  Sanctuary!  She  had  been  here — here 
in  this  room — and  within  the  last  few  hours — sometime 
since  seven  o'clock  that  evening,  when,  as  Jimmie  Dale, 
he  had  come  here  to  assume  the  role  of  Smarlinghue  pre- 
paratory to  his  vigil  in  Foo  Sen's ! 

His  hand,  thrust  in  through  the  opening  to  reach  for 
his  clothes,  had  found  an  envelope  where  it  lay  on  the 
top  of  the  folded  garments — and  his  hand  was  still  thrust 
inside — there  was  no  need  to  look — the  texture  of  the 
was  hers — hers — the  Tocsin's!  The  blood  was 


IN  THE  SANCTUARY  169 

racing  wildly  through  his  veins.  There  was  a  mad  joy 
upon  him — and  a  sense  of  keen  and  bitter  emptiness. 
Wild  thoughts,  in  lightning  flashes,  swept  his  brain.  She 
must  have  been  here,  then,  many  times  before  .  .  .  she 
knew  the  Sanctuary  as  well  as  he  did  .  .  .  she  knew  the 
secret  hiding  place  behind  the  base-board  .  .  .  she  had 
come,  of  course,  knowing  he  was  absent  .  .  .  she  might 
come  some  day  thinking  he  was  absent  .  .  .  yes,  why  not 
• — why  not  .  .  .  perhaps — perhaps  that  was  the  way  .  .  . 
some  day  she  might  come  again.  .  .  . 

He  laughed  a  little  in  a  shaken  way,  and  drew  out  the 
letter.  With  a  mental  wrench,  he  forced  his  mind  into 
a  calmer  state.  It  was  very  singular  that  she  should  have 
placed  the  letter  in  that  hiding  place !  It  could  evidence 
but  one  thing — that  the  contents  of  the  letter,  unlike  any 
she  had  ever  written  before,  were  not  of  a  pressing  na- 
ture, for  she  would  know  very  well  that  it  might  have 
been  many  hours,  days  even,  before  he  might  go  there 
for  the  clothes  of  Jimmie  Dale  again !  What,  then,  did 
it  mean  ?  Had  she  decided  at  last  to  tell  him  all,  to  let 
him  take  his  place  beside  her,  share  her  danger,  fight  with 
her!  Was  that  it? 

He  reached  hurriedly  intd  the  opening  again,  drew  out 
the  little  leather  girdle,  and  from  one  of  its  pockets  took 
out  a  flashlight.  He  had  not  dared  to  light  the  gas  be- 
fore ,w  dressed,  or,  rather,  undressed,  as  he  was  at  present, 
and  no  longer  Smarlinghue,  he  dared  much  less  to  light 
it  now. 

He  tore  the  envelope  open,  and,  still  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  the  flashlight  upon  the  pages,  began  to  read: 

"Dear  Philanthropic  Crook:  You  will  be  surprised 
to  find  this  letter  in  such  a  place,  won't  you  ?  Yes,  you 
are  quite  right,  for  once,  as  you  will  already  have  told 
yourself,  there  is  no  hurry — for  it  is  too  late  to  hurry. 


170       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

Listen,  then !    Henry  Grenville's  safe — the  old  East  Side 
lawyer,  you  know " 

He  had  read  eagerly  so  far.  He  stared  at  the  letter 
now,  and  the  words  only  danced  in  an  unmeaning  jumble 
before  him.  It  was  not  for  herself,  it  was  not  that  she 
had  thrown  the  barriers  down  and  was  bidding  him  come 
to  her;  it  was  again  another  "call  to  arms"  to  the  Gray 
Seal — and  for  another's  sake.  And  there  came  to  Jimmie 
Dale  a  miserable  disappointment,  for  his  hope,  shattered 
now,  had  been  greater  than  he  had  admitted  even  to 
himself.  And  then  he  was  aware  that,  subconsciously,  it 
had  seemed  to  him  a  most  curious  coincidence  that  the 
letter  should  be  dealing  with  the  robbery  of  Henry  Gren- 
ville's safe  that  night.  Yes,  certainly,  it  was  a  most 
curious  coincidence,  when  he  was  even  then  on  his  way— 
to  the  Rat !  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  his  whimsical 
way.  Well,  for  once,  he  had  forestalled  the  Tocsin! 
There  could  be  little  here  that  he  did  not  already  know. 
He  began  to  read  again,  but  skimming  over  the  words  and 
sentences  hurriedly  now. 

".  .  .  Curley  .  .  .  liquor  business  .  .  .  buying  out  part- 
ner, Haines  .  .  .  this  afternoon  .  .  .  fifteen  thousand 
dollars  .  .  .  large  bills,  one-hundred,  five-hundred  and 
thousand-dollar  denominations  .  .  .  sealed  in  envelope 
by  Grenville  .  .  .  placed  by  Grenville  in  his  safe  .  .  . 
head  of  one  of  the  most  successful  and  desperate  gangs 
in  tne  country  .  .  .  years  under  cover  through  position 
occupied  .  .  .  take  your  time,  Jimmie,  and  be  careful 
before  you  act  .  .  .  rest  of  gang  is  'working'  Boston  and 
Nc%^  England  this  week  .  .  .  backyard  from  lane,  high 
board  fence  ...  in  cellar  .  .  .  cleverly  concealed  door 
at  right  of  coal  bin  .  .  .  knot  in  wood  seventh  board 
from  wall  on  level  with  your  shoulders  .  .  .  short  pas- 
sage beyond  leading  to  door  of  den  .  .  .  sound-proof 
room  .  .  .  exit  through  other  side  .  .  .  sliding  panel  to 
room  above  .  .  .  opened  by  hanging  weight  inside  .  .  «'* 


IN  THE  SANCTUARY  17i 

In  a  stunned  way  now,  Jimmie  Dale  stared  for  a  long 
minute  at  the  letter  in  his  hand — then  he  read  it  again — 
and  yet  again.  And  then,  the  flashlight  out,  as  he  tore 
the  letter  into  fragments,  he  stared  again,  for  a  long 
minute — into  the  blackness. 

It  was  damnable,  it  was  monstrous,  this  thing  that  he 
had  read;  it  plumbed  the  dregs  of  human  deviltry — but' 
for  once  the  Tocsin  was  at  fault.  Of  the  plot  that  had 
been  hatched,  of  those  details  that  she  described,  there 
could  be  no  doubt,  there  was  no  question  there,  and  there 
the  Tocsin,  he  knew,  had  made  no  mistake;  but  the 
Tocsin,  yes,  and  those  who  had  hatched  the  crime  them- 
selves, had  taken  no  account  of  the  possible  intervention 
of  an  outsider  in  the  person  of — the  Rat!  There  was 
even  a  sort  of  grim  irony  in  it  all — that  the  Rat  should 
quite  unconsciously  have  feathered  his  nest  at  the  expense 
of  a  far  more  elaborately  arranged  crime  than  his  own, 
and  at  the  expense  of  those  who  were  of  even  a  more 
abandoned,  dangerous  and  unscrupulous  type  of  criminal 
than  himself! 

Jimmie  Dale's  face  hardened  suddenly — and  suddenly 
he  stooped  and  pulled  his  clothes  from  their  hiding  place, 
and  began  to  dress.  For  once,  his  inside  information 
outreached  hers.  It  was  still — the  Rat.  Her  letter 
changed  nothing,  save  that  afterwards,  perhaps — well, 
that  afterwards,  perhaps,  there  was  another,  others  be- 
side the  Rat,  with  whom  an  accounting  would  be  made  I 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  SECRET  ROOM 

JIMMIE  DALE  dressed  quickly  now.  From  the 
pockets  of  the  little  leather  girdle  to  the  pockets  of 
his  tweeds  he  transferred  a  steel  picklock,  a  pair  of  light 
steel  handcuffs,  a  piece  of  fine  but  exceedingly  strong 
cord,  a  black  silk  mask,  and  that  small  metal  case,  within 
which,  between  sheets  of  oiled  paper,  lay  those  gray- 
coloured,  diamond-shaped,  adhesive  paper  seals  that  were 
known  in  every  den  in  the  underworld,  known  in  every 
police  bureau  of  two  continents,  as  the  insignia  of  the 
Gray  Seal.  He  slipped  the  flashlight  into  his  pocket,  took 
his  automatic  from  the  discarded  garments  of  Smarling- 
hue — and,  thrusting  the  ragged  clothing  into  the  opening, 
put  the  removable  section  of  the  base-board  back  into 
place. 

And  now,  twin  to  that  streak  of  lesser  gloom  that  came 
from  the  top-light,  another  filtered  into  the  room.  The 
small  French  window,  opened  and  closed  without  sound— 
the  room  was  empty.  A  shadow  in  the  courtyard,  close 
against  the  wall  of  the  tenement,  moved  forward  a  foot, 
a  yard — a  loose  board  in  the  fence  bordering  the  lane 
swung  silently  aside — and  in  a  moment  more,  striding 
nonchalantly  up  the  block,  Jimmie  Dale  turned  into  the 
Bowery. 

He  had  some  distance  to  go,  almost  back  as  far  as  the 
liquor  store  at  the  lower  end  of  the  Bowery,  for  the  Rat 
lived,  if  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  not  mistaken,  just  one  block 


THE  SECRET  ROOM  173 

this  side,  in  a  small  one-story  frame  building  on  the  cor- 
ner of  a  cross  street ;  and — it  seemed  incongruous,  queerly 
out  of  place  somehow — the  Rat  lived  with  his  mother. 
Home  ties,  or  home  relationships,  hardly  seemed  in 
harmony  with  the  Rat !  Still,  in  this  case,  it  was  perhaps 
very  debatable  ground  as  to  which  was  the  more  per- 
nicious, the  old  woman  or  the  son !  Ostensibly,  she  kept 
a  little  variety  store;  but  her  business,  if  report  were 
true,  was  the  edifying  occupation  of  school  mistress — 
the  children  graduating  under  her  tuition  being  ranked 
by  common  consent  as  the  most  accomplished  pickpockets 
in  gangland ! 

Jimmie  Dale  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  he  swung  at 
last  from  the  Bowery  into  a  narrow,  poorly  lighted  street. 
Well,  at  least,  if  the  Rat's  criminal  career  ended  to-night, 
the  Rat's  punishment  need  excite  no  sympathy  for  the 
old  woman,  as  far  as  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  concerned — • 
it  was  a  pity  only  that  she  had  not  been  behind  the  bars 
herself  long  ago!  Yes,  this  was  the  place — the  small 
frame  building  diagonally  across  from  the  corner  on 
which  he  had  halted.  He  crossed  over  for  a  closer  inspec- 
tion. The  front  of  the  house  was  dark,  the  little  store 
windows  shuttered.  He  hesitated  an  instant,  then  walked 
around  the  corner  to  survey  the  building  from  the  side 
and  rear.  Here,  from  a  window  that  gave  on  the  inter- 
secting street,  there  showed  a  light.  The  window  was 
low,  scarcely  above  the  level  of  his  head,  but  held  no 
promise  on  that  score  as  a  source  of  information,  for  the 
shade  within  was  tightly  drawn.  Jimmie  Dale  scowled  at 
it  for  a  moment,  noted  its  proximity  to  the  backyard  and 
the  front  of  the  building.  The  Rat,  then,  or  the  Rat's 
mother,  was  still  up,  and  he  would  need  to  exercise  more 
than  ordinary  caution— or  else  wait — indefinitely,  per- 
haps. 

He  shook  his  head  at  that  alternative,  as  he  looked 


sharply  up  and  down  the  street.  He  would  gain  little 
by  waiting,  and  —  ah  !  He  was  crouched  in  the  doorway 
now,  the  deft  fingers  working  swiftly  with  the  picklock. 
There  was  a  faint  metallic  click,  barely  audible  above  his 
low-breathed  exclamation  —  and  the  door  opened  and 
closed  behind  him. 

The  flashlight  in  his  hand  winked  once  —  and  went  out. 
Small,  glass-topped  counters  were  on  either  side  of  the 
somewhat  restricted  aisle  in  which  he  stood;  directly  in 
front  of  him,  at  the  rear  of  the  store,  was  a  door,  leading, 
obviously,  to  the  living  rooms  beyond. 

The  old  days  of  Larry  the  Bat,  the  rickety,  creaky 
stairs  of  the  old  Sanctuary  had  trained  Jimmie  Dale's 
step  to  a  silence  that  was  almost  uncanny.  It  might  have 
been  a  shadow  moving  there  across  the  floor  of  the  store, 
a  shadow  flitting  through  that  doorway  beyond.  There 
was  no  sound. 

And  now,  at  the  end  of  a  short,  dark  passage,  he 
stopped  before  the  door  of  what  was,  from  its  location, 
the  lighted  room  he  had  seen  from  the  street  ;  and,  slip- 
ping his  mask  over  his  face,  he  placed  his  ear  against  the 
door  panel  to  listen.  He  was  rewarded  only  by  absolute 
silence.  His  lips,  under  the  mask,  twisted  queerly,  as, 
softly,  cautiously,  he  tried  the  door.  It  gave  under  the 
steady  pressure  that  he  exerted  upon  it  —  gave  without 
sound  for  the  measure  of  a  fraction  of  an  inch  —  it  was 
unlocked.  And  now  Jimmie  Dale  could  see  into  the 
room  —  and  suddenly  he  stepped  noiselessly  forward,  his 
automatic  holding  a  bead  on  the  crouched  figure  of  the 
Rat,  asleep  apparently  in  his  chair,  whose  head,  flung 
forward,  was  buried  in  his  crossed  arms  upon  the  table 
in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"Good  evening  !"  said  Jimmie  Dale,  in  a  velvet  voice. 

There  was  no  answer  —  the  man  neither  turned  his 
head,  nor  looked  up, 


THE  SECRET  ROOM  175 

And  for  a  moment  Jimmie  Dale  did  not  stir — only  into 
the  dark  eyes  shining  through  the  mask  there  came  a 
startled  gleam,  and  through  the  heavy,  palpitating  silence 
the  quick,  sudden  intake  of  his  breath  sounded  clamour- 
ously  loud.  He  saw  now — the  gray  of  the  cheek  just 
showing  above  the  arm  that  pillowed  it,  the  stiff,  hunched, 
unnatural  position  of  the  body,  the  crimson  pool  on  the 
floor  by  the  chair  leg.  The  mem  was  dead! 

Tight-lipped,  the  strong  jaw  outthrust  a  little,  his  face 
hard  and  set,  Jimmie  Dale  moved  to  the  Rat's  side,  and 
bent  over  the  man.  Yes,  it  was — murder!  The  Rat  had 
been  stabbed  in  the  back  just  below  the  left  armpit.  He 
glanced  sharply  around  the  room.  There  was  no  sign  of 
struggle,  except — yes — there  were  bruises  on  the  man's 
neck,  as  though  a  hand  had  grasped  it  fiercely,  and — he 
bent  lower — yes,  faintly,  but  nevertheless  distinctly 
enough,  two  blood-stained  finger  prints  were  discernible 
on  the  Rat's  collar.  He  lifted  the  Rat's  hands  and  ex- 
amined them  critically — it  might  perhaps  have  been  the 
man  himself  clutching  his  own  throat,  as  he  choked  am? 
struggled  for  breath — no,  the  Rat's  fingers  showed,  not 
the  slightest  trace  of  blood. 

And  then,  instinctively,  Jimmie  Dale  reached  out  to* 
ward  the  other's  pocket ;  but,  with  a  hard  smile,  dropped 
his  hand  to  his  side,  instead.  The  sealed  envelope,  the 
fifteen  thousand  dollars,  was  not  there — it  was  where  the 
Tocsin  had  said  it  was!  The  Tocsin,  not  he,  had  been 
fight !  And  yet,  too,  in  a  way,  he  had  not  been  entirely 
wrong.  It  was  the  Rat  who  had  stolen  the  sealed  enve- 
lope from  the  safe — or  else  the  Rat  would  not  now  be 
dead! 

His  mind,  alert  and  keen  now,  was  dovetailing  together 
the  pieces  of  the  puzzle.  Those  who  had  originally 
planned  the  crime  had  in  some  way  discovered  that  the 
Rat,  in  the  actual  theft,  had  forestalled  them.  Possibly, 


176       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

for  instance,  bent  on  the  same  errand,  they  had  seen  the 
Rat  leaving  the  building;  then,  finding  the  safe  already 
looted,  they  had  put  two  and  two  together,  and  had 
trapped  the  Rat  here — and  the  Rat  had  paid  the  price! 
It  might  have  been  that  way,  but  that  in  itself  was  a  de- 
tail, immaterial — they  had  discovered  that  it  was  the  Rat. 
The  Rat's  murder  proved  it.  It  was  not  enough  that 
they  should  recover  the  envelope — there  would  have  been 
no  way  to  avoid  exposure  or  cover  their  own  crime  ex- 
cept by  murdering  the  Rat. 

He  looked  down  at  the  silent  form  sprawled  over  the 
table,  and  his  face  relaxed,  softened  a  little.  The  Rat 
was  only  the  Rat,  it  was  true,  and  the  man  was  a  thief, 
an  outcast,  a  pariah,  a  prey  upon  society;  but  life  to 
the  Rat,  too,  had  been  sweet,  and  his  murder  was  a 
hideous  thing — and  even  such  as  the  Rat  might  ask  jus- 
tice. Justice !  It  had  been  dirty  work — miserable,  dirty 
work,  he  had  called  it  when  he  had  thought  the  Rat 
alone  involved — but  now,  thanks  to  the  Tocsin,  he  knew 
it  for  what  it  really  was,  knew  it  for  its  damnable,  hellish 
ingenuity,  and  its  abominable,  brutal  callousness!  Jus- 
tice !  Yes — but  how  ? 

He  began  to  move  about  the  room,  his  mind  for  the 
moment  diverted  in  an  endeavour  to  reconstruct  the  scene 
as  it  must  have  been  enacted  here  around  him.  The  Rat 
had  broken  into  the  safe  before  eleven  o'clock — that  was 
obvious  now.  In  fact,  it  was  quite  likely  to  have  been 
much  nearer  ten!  He  had  returned  here  and  had  been 
sitting  there  at  the  table,  counting  over  his  ill-gotten  gains, 
perhaps,  his  back  to  the  door,  just  as  he  sat  now,  and 
they  had  stolen  in  upon  him.  But  where  was  the  old 
woman?  True,  perhaps  little,  if  any,  noise  had  been 
made,  and  yet — Jimmie  Dale,  pausing  on  the  threshold  of 
the  door,  listened  intently.  One  of  the  two  rooms,  whose 
doors  he  saw  between  this  end  room  and  the  door  opening 


THE  SECRET  ROOM  177 

into  the  store,  must  be  hers,  and  if  she  were  there,  asleep, 
for  instance,  his  ear  was  surely  acute  enough  to  catch, 
in  the  stillness  that  lay  upon  the  house,  the  sound  of 
breathing.  But  there  was  nothing.  Under  the  mask, 
his  brows  drew  together  in  a  perplexed  frown.  And 
then  suddenly  he  stood  rigid,  tense.  Yes,  there  was  a 
sound  at  last — and  an  ominous  one!  The  front  door 
leading  into  the  store  was  being  opened,  came  the  scuffling 
of  footsteps — and  then  a  woman's  voice,  shrill,  wailing: 

"Wen  I  come  in  not  twenty  minutes  ago  dere  he  was — • 
dead.  My  Gawd — knifed  he  was!  An'  den  I  runs  fer 
youse  at  de  station.  I  gotta  right  ter  cry,  ain't  I !  He's 
my  son,  he  is — ain't  he !  I  gotta  right " 

"Keep  quiet !"  snapped  a  man's  voice  gruffly.  "We've 
heard  all  that  a  dozen  times  now.  It's  a  pity  you  didn't 
think  more  about  being  his  mother  twenty  years  ago! 
Mike,  you'd  better  lock  that  front  door!" 

Jimmie  Dale  drew  back,  and  closed  the  door  softly.  If 
he  were  caught  here  now !  The  old  woman  had  brought 
the  police  back  with  her — two  of  them,  it  appeared.  He 
smiled  in  a  hard  way.  Well,  he  did  not  propose  to  be 
caught.  His  hand  reached  up  to  the  electric  light  switch, 
there  was  a  click,  and  the  room  was  in  darkness.  In  the 
fraction  of  a  second  more  he  was  at  the  window.  Shade 
and  window  were  swiftly,  silently  raised,  and  he  looked 
out  cautiously.  The  street  was  deserted,  empty;  there 
was  no  one  in  sight.  It  was  very  simple,  a  drop  of  a 
few  feet  to  the  sidewalk,  a  dash  around  the  corner — and 
that  was  all.  They  were  coming  now.  He  swung  one 
leg  over  the  sill — and  sat  there  motionless,  his  mind  bal- 
ancing with  lightning  speed  the  pros  against  the  cons  of  a 
sudden  inspiration  that  had  come  to  him.  Justice  .  .  . 
justice  on  those  guilty  of  this  wretched  murder  here,  and 
guilty  of  many  another  crime  almost  as  grave  ...  he 
had  asked  himself  how  .  .  .  here  was  a  way  ...  a  dare- 


178       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

devil,  foolhardy  way?  .  .  .  no,  the  possibility  of  being 
winged  by  a  chance  shot,  perhaps,  but  otherwise  a  safe 
way  .  .  .  escape  through  that  panel  door  operated  by 
weights  .  .  .  and  it  was  not  far  to  that  den  the  Tocsin 
had  described  .  .  .  nor  would  he  be  running  into  a  trap 
himself  .  .  .  the  gang  was  not  there  .  .  .  perhaps  no 
one  .  .  .  but  perhaps,  with  luck,  those  he  might  wish 
would  be  there  ...  it  would  be  a  gracious  little  act  on 
the  part  of  the  Gray  Seal,  would  it  not,  to  invite  the  police, 
this  Mike  and  his  companion,  to  that  den — they  would  be 
deeply  interested!  He  laughed  low — they  were  almost 
at  the  door  now.  Well  ?  The  doorknob  rattled.  Yes,  he 
would  do  it!  Yes — now!  He  stretched  out  suddenly, 
and  with  the  toe  of  his  boot  kicked  over  a  chair  that  was 
within  reach.  The  crash,  as  the  chair  fell,  was  answered 
by  a  rush  through  the  door,  a  hoarse,  surprised  and  quick- 
flung  oath — and,  as  Jimmie  Dale  swung  out  through  the 
window  and  dropped  to  the  street,  the  flash  and  roar  of 
a  revolver  shot. 

Like  a  cat  on  his  feet,  he  whirled  as  he  touched  the 
pavement,  and  darted  along  past  the  backyard  fence, 
heading  for  the  lane ;  and,  as  he  ran,  over  his  shoulder,  he 
saw  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  the  two  men,  both  in 
police  uniform,  drop  from  the  window  and  take  up  the 
pursuit.  Another  shot,  and  another,  a  fusillade  of  them 
rang  out.  A  bullet  struck  the  pavement  at  his  feet  wiik 
a  venomous  spat.  He  heard  the  humming  of  another  that 
was  like  the  humming  of  an  angry  wasp.  And  he  laughed 
again  to  himself — but  short  and  grimly  now.  Just  a  few 
yards  more — five  of  them — to  the  corner  of  the  lane.  It 
was  the  chance  he  had  invited — three  yards — two— his 
breath  was  coming  in  hard,  short  panting  gasps — safe! 
Yes !  He  had  won  now — they  would  not  get  another 
shot  at  him,  at  least  not  another  that  he  would  have  any 
need  to  fear ! 


THE  SECRET  ROOM  179 

He  swerved  into  the  lane,  still  running  at  top  speed.  A 
high  board  fence,  she  had  said — yes,  there  it  was !  And  it 
corresponded  in  location  with  where  he  knew  it  should 
he — about  three  lots  in  from  the  street.  He  sprang  for 
it,  and  swung  lithely  to  the  top — and  hung  there,  as 
though  still  scrambling  and  struggling  for  his  balance. 
The  officers  had  not  turned  into  the  lane  yet,  and  he  had 
n.o  intention  of  affording  them  any  excuse  for  losing  sight 
cf  their  quarry! 

Ah!  There  they  were!  A  yell  and  a  revolver  shot 
sang  out  simultaneously  as  they  caught  sight  of  him — 
and  Jimmie  Dale  dropped  down  to  the  ground  on  the 
inside  of  the  fence.  In  the  moonlight  he  could  see  quite 
distinctly.  He  darted  across  the  yard,  heading  for  the 
ba«  taient  door  of  the  building  that  loomed  up  in  front 
of  nim. 

The  little  steel  picklock  was  in  his  hand  as  he  reached 
the  door.  A  second — two — three  went  by.  He  straight- 
ened up — and  again  he  waited — stepping  back  a  few  feet 
to  stand  sharply  outlined  in  the  moonlight. 

Again  a  shout  in  signal  that  he  was  seen,  as  one  of  the 
officers'  heads  appeared  over  the  top  of  the  fence — and 
Jimmie  Dale,  as  though  in  mad  haste,  plunged  through 
the  door. 

And  now  suddenly  his  tactics  changed.  He  needed 
every  second  he  could  gain,  and  the  police  now  certainly 
could  no  longer  lose  their  way.  He  swung  the  door  shut 
behind  him,  locked  it  to  delay  them,  and  snatched  his 
flashlight  from  his  pocket.  He  was  at  the  top  of  a  few 
ladder-like  steps  that  led  down  into  the  cellar  of  the 
building,  and  halfway  along  the  length  of  the  cellar  the 
ray  of  his  flashlight  swept  across  a  huge  coal  bin,  its 
sides,  it  seemed,  built  almost  up  to  the  ceiling. 

Jimmie  Dale  was  muttering  to  himself  now,  as  he  took 
the  steos  at  a  single  lean,  and  raced  toward  the  side  of 


180       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  bin  that  flanked  the  wall — "seventh  board  from  the 
wall — knot  on  a  level  with  shoulders" — and  now  he  was 
counting  rapidly — and  now  the  round,  white  ray  played 
on  the  seventh  board.  They  were  smashing  at  the  cellar 
door  now.  The  knot !  Ah — there  it  was !  He  pressed 
it.  Two  of  the  boards  in  front  of  him,  the  width  of  a 
man's  body,  swung  back.  He  left  this  open — aJ  blazed 
trail  for  his  pursuers,  battering  now  at  the  cellar  door — 
and  stepped  forward  into  a  little  opening,  too  short  to 
be  called  a  passage,  and,  silent  now,  halted  before  another 
door. 

Brain  and  eyes  and  hands  were  working  now  with  in- 
credible speed.  That  it  was  a  sound-proof  room  was 
not,  perhaps,  altogether  an  unmixed  blessing!  Was  the 
place  deserted?  Was  there  any  one  within?  He  could 
hear  nothing.  Well,  after  all,  did  it  make  any  ultimate 
difference?  The  room  itself  would  condemn  them! 

The  picklock  was  at  work  again — working  silently — 
working  swiftly.  And  now,  in  its  place,  his  automatic 
was  in  his  hand. 

He  crouched  a  little — and  with  a  spring,  flinging  wide 
the  door,  was  in  the  room.  There  was  a  smothered  cry, 
an  oath,  the  crash  of  an  overturned  chair,  as  two  men, 
from  a  table  heaped  with  little  piles  of  crisp,  new  bank- 
notes, sprang  wildly  to  their  feet.  And  Jimmie  Dale's 
lips  twisted  in  a  smile  not  good  to  see.  Standing  there 
before  him  were  Curley  and  Haines. 

"Keep  your  seats,  gentlemen — please!"  said  Jimmie 
Dale,  with  grim  irony.  "I  shall  only  stay  a  moment. 
It  is  Mr.  Curley  and  Mr.  Haines,  I  believe — in  their 
private  office !  Permit  me !" — he  reached  out  with  his 
left  hand,  and  closed  the  door.  "Ah,  I  see  there  is  a 
good  serviceable  bolt  on  it.  I  have  your  permission  ?" — 
he  slipped  the  bolt  into  place.  "As  I  said,  I  shall  only 
stay  a  moment ;  but  it  would  be  unfortunate,  most  unf or- 


THE  SECRET  -flOOM  181 

tunate,  if  we  were  by  any  chance  interrupted — prema- 
turely!" 

Haines,  ashen  white,  was  gripping  at  the  table  edge. 
Curley,  a  deadly  glitter  in  his  wicked  little  eyes,  moistened 
his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"How'd  you  get  here,  and  what  the  hell  d'  you  want?" 
he  burst  out  fiercely. 

"As  to  the  first  question,  I  haven't  time  to  answer  it," 
said  Jimmie  Dale  evenly.  '"What  I  want  is  the  sealed 
envelope  stolen  from  Henry  Grenville's  safe — and  I'm 
in  a  hurry,  Mr.  Curley." 

"You're  a  fool !"  said  Curley,  with  a  sneer.    "It's " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Jimmie  Dale,  with  ominous 
patience,  "it's  counterfeit,  you  miserable  paif  of  curs! 
Counterfeit  like  the  rest  of  that  stuff  there  on  the  table ! 
Nice  place  you've  got  here — everything,  I  see — press, 
plates,  engraver's  tools — nothing  missing  but  the  rest  of 
the  gang!  Perhaps,  though,  they  can  be  found!  Now 
then,  that  envelope — quick!"  Jimmie  Dale's  automatic 
swung  forward  significantly. 

"It's  in  the  drawer  of  the  table,"  snarled  Curley. 
"Curse  you,  who " 

"Thank  you!"  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  were  a  thin  line. 
"Now,  you  two,  stand  out  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor — and  if  either  of  you  make  a  move  other  than  you 
are  told  to  make,  I'll  drop  you  as  I  would  drop  a  mad 
dog!"  He  jerked  the  two  chairs  out  from  the  table,  and, 
still  covering  Curley  and  Haines,  placed  the  chairs 
back  to  back.  "Sit  down  there,  stretch  out  your  arms  full 
length  on  either  side,  the  palms  of  your  hands  against 
each  other's!"  he  ordered  curtly;  and,  as  they  obeyed — 
Haines,  cowed,  all  pretence  at  nerve  gone,  Curley 
cursing  in  abandon — he  slipped  the  handcuffs  over  their 
wrists  on  one  side,  and,  taking  the  piece  of  cord  from 
his  pocket  that  he  had  intended  for  the  Rat's  ankles,  he 


182       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

deftly  noosed  their  wrists  on  the  other  side  with  a  slip 
knot,  which  he  fastened  securely. 

He  stepped  over  to  the  table. 

"Counterfeiting  five-hundred  and  thousand-dollar  bills 
is  rather  out  of  the  ordinary  run,  isn't  it — I  see  these  on 
the  table  here  are  the  regular  small  variety!"  he  ob- 
served coolly,  as  he  pulled  the  drawer  open.  "The  big 
ones  make  a  quick  turn-over,  though,  if  you  have  the 
plant  to  turn  them  out,  and  can  swing  a  scheme  to  cash 
them — after  banking  hours — and  steal  them  back! 
Hello,  what's  this!" — the  sealed  envelope,  torn  open  at 
one  end,  evidently  by  the  Rat  in  his  examination,  but  still 
full  of  the  counterfeit  notes,  was  blood-smeared,  and  on 
the  upper  left-hand  corner  there  showed  the  distinct 
impression  of  a  finger  print. 

There  was  a  sudden  crash  against  the  door. 

Both  men,  in  their  chairs,  strained  around — and  now 
Curley,  too,  had  lost  his  colour. 

"My  God,  what's  that !"  he  whispered. 

The  thin  metal  case  was  in  Jimmie  Dale's  hand.  With 
the  tweezers,  he  lifted  one  of  the  little  gray  seals  to  his 
lips,  moistened  it,  and,  using  his  elbow,  pressed  it  firmly 
down  upon  the  envelope. 

Came  another  furious  thud  upon  the  door — and  an- 
other. 

"What's  that!"  Curley's  voice  was  a  frantic  scream 
now.  "For  God's  sake,  do  you  hear,  what's  that !" 

Jimmie  Dale,  under  a  pencilled  arrow  mark  indicating 
the  finger  print,  was  scrawling  a  few  words  in  printed 
characters. 

"It's  the  police,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  calmly.  "Some- 
body murdered  the  Rat  to-night !"  He  surveyed  the  en- 
velope in  his  hand  critically.  Between  the  arrow  mark 
and  the  gray  seal  were  the  words :  "Look  on  the  Rat's 
collar — and  these  gentlemen's  fingers."  He  laid  the  en- 


THE  SECRET  ROOM  188 

velope  down  on  the  table — and,  as  the  door  suddenly 
splintered  and  sagged  under  a  terrific  blow  from  some 
heavy  object,  he  retreated  hurriedly  to  the  farther  end 
of  the  room.  Here  a  half  dozen  steps  led  upward,  and 
hanging  from  the  ceiling  beside  them  was  a  cord  to  which 
was  attached  a  leaden  weight.  He  jerked  the  cord 
quickly.  A  panel  above  him  slid  noiselessly  back.  He 
leaped  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  paused  for  a  moment 

"They've  been  looking  for  this  place  for  several  years, 
I  guess,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  softly.  "And  I  guess  it  will 
change  hands  to-night  for  the  last  time — and  without 
the  need  of  any  Bill  of  Sale  from  old  Henry  Grenville! 
But  we  vrere  speaking  of  the  Rat — and  why  the  Rat  was 
murdered.  If  the  Rat  had  had  a  chance  to  spread  the 
news  that  the  money  paid  by  Mr.  Curley  this  afternoon 
was  counterfeit,  it " 

Jimmie  Dale  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  In  a  bound, 
as  the  door  from  the  cellar  crashed  inward,  he  was 
through  the  panel  opening  and  in  the  room  above.  There 
was  light  from  the  open  panel  behind  him — enough  to 
show  him  that  he  was  in  a  small  room  which  was  fitted 
up  as  an  office — the  office  of  Haines  &  Curley,  whole- 
sale liquor  dealers ! 

In  an  instant  he  was  out  of  the  office,  and  running 
silently  down  the  length  of  the  store.  He  snatched  off 
his  mask,  reached  the  front  door,  opened  it,  stepped  out 
on  the  quiet,  deserted  street — and  a  moment  later  Jimmie 
Dale  was  but  one  of  the  many  that  still,  even  at  that  hour, 
drifted  their  way  along  the  Bowery. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  LAST  CARD 

TWO  weeks  had  gone  by — or  was  it  three?  How 
long  was  it  since  he  had  found  the  Tocsin's  letter 
in  the  secret  hiding  place  of  the  new  Sanctuary !  It  had 
seemed  to  him  then  that  he  had  been  given  a  new  lead, 
a  new  hope ;  for,  once  he  had  recovered  from  his  startled 
amazement  at  the  realisation  that  she  was  as  conversant 
with  the  secrets  of  the  new  Sanctuary  as  she  had  been 
with  the  old,  there  had  come  the  thought  of  turning  that 
very  fact  to  his  own  account — that  if  he  were  unable  to 
reach  or  find  her  by  any  other  means,  he  might  succeed, 
instead,  by  letting  her  unwittingly  come  to  him.  She  had 
come  there  once  to  the  Sanctuary  when  he  had  been  ab- 
sent ;  she  was  almost  certain  to  come  there  again — when 
she  thought  he  was  absent!  He  had  put  his  plan  into 
execution.  For  days  at  a  stretch  he  had  remained  hidden 
in  the  Sanctuary — and  nothing  had  come  of  it — and  then 
the  inaction,  coupled  with  the  knowledge  that  the  peril 
which  faced  her,  even  though  his  previous  efforts  to 
avert  it  had  all  been  abortive,  had  made  it  unbearable  to 
remain  longer  passive,  and  he  had  given  it  up,  and  gone 
out  again,  combing  and  searching  through  the  dens  and 
dives  of  the  underworld. 

That  had  been  two  weeks  ago — or  three.  And  the  net 
result  had  been  nothing ! 

Jimmie  Dale  allowed  the  evening  newspaper  to  slip 
from  his  fingers.  It  dropped  to  the  arm  of  his  lounging 
chair,  and  from  there  to  the  floor.  It  was  no  use.  He 

184. 


THE  LAST  CARD  185 

had  been  reading  mechanically  ever  since  he  had  re- 
turned from  the  club  half  an  hour  ago,  and  he  was  con- 
scious in  only  the  haziest  sort  of  way  of  what  he  had 
been  reading.  The  market,  the  general  news  items,  the 
editorials,  had  all  blended  one  into  the  other  to  form  a 
meaningless  jumble  of  words;  even  the  leading  article 
on  the  front  page,  that  proclaimed  as  imminent  the  final 
and  complete  expose  of  what  had  come  to  be  known  as 
"The  Private  Club  Ring" — an  investigation  that,  from 
its  inception,  he  had  hitherto  followed  closely,  promising 
as  it  did  to  involve  and  link  in  partnership  with  the  lowest 
of  the  underworld  names  that  heretofore  had  stood  high 
up  in  the  social  circles  of  New  York — seemed  uninterest- 
ing and  unable  to  hold  his  attention  to-night. 

He  rose  impulsively  from  his  chair,  and,  walking  down 
the  length  of  the  richly  furnished  room,  his  tread  sound- 
less on  the  thick,  heavy  rug,  drew  the  portieres  aside,  and 
stood  looking  out  of  the  rear  window.  It  was  dark  out- 
side, but  presently  the  shadows  formed  into  concrete 
shapes,  and,  across  the  black  space  of  driveway  and 
yard,  the  wall  of  the  garage  assumed  a  solid  background 
against  the  night.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead 
heavily,  and  a  wanness  came  into  his  face  and  eyes.  Once 
before  he  had  stood  here  at  this  window  of  his  den,  the 
room  that  ran  the  entire  depth  of  his  magnificent  River- 
side Drive  residence,  and  old  Jason  had  stood  at  the 
front  window — and  they  had  watched,  Jason  and  he — • 
watched  the  shadows,  that  were  not  shadows  of  walls 
and  buildings,  close  in  around  the  house.  That  was  the 
night  before  he  had  escaped  from  the  trap  set  by  the 
Crime  Club;  the  night  before  the  old  Sanctuary  had 
burned  down,  and  police  and  underworld  alike  had  be- 
lieved the  Gray  Seal  buried  beneath  the  charred  and 
fallen  walls;  the  night  before  she,  the  Tocsin,  had  come 


186       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

for  a  little  while  into  her  own,  and  for  a  little  while—* 
into  his  arms. 

His  lips  twisted  in  pain.  A  little  while!  Days  of 
glad  and  glorious  wonder!  They  were  gone  now;  and 
in  their  place  was  emptiness  and  loneliness — and  a  great, 
overmastering  fear  and  terror  that  would  clutch  at  times, 
as  it  clutched  now,  cold  at  his  heart. 

It  was  not  so  very  long  ago  that  night,  only  a  few 
months  ago,  but  it  seemed  as  though  the  years  had  come 
and  rolled  away  since  then.  She  was  gone  again,  driven 
by  a  peril  that  menaced  her  life  into  hiding  again — a  peril 
that  she  would  not  let  him  share — because  she  loved  him. 

The  pain  that  showed  on  his  twisted  lips  was  voiced 
in  a  low,  involuntary  cry.  Because  she  loved  him !  His 
hands  clenched  hard.  Where  was  she  ?  Who  was  it  that 
dogged  and  haunted  her,  that  was  wrecking  and  ruining 
her  life  ?  God  knew !  And  God  knew,  employing  every 
resource  he  possessed,  he  had  done  everything  he  could 
to  reach  her.  And  all  that  he  had  accomplished  had  been 
the  creation  of  a  new  character  in  the  underworld !  That 
was  all — and  yet,  strangely  enough,  in  that  way 
there  had  come  to  him  the  one  single  gleam  of  relief 
that  he  had  known,  for  out  of  the  creation  of  that  char- 
acter had  sprung  again  the  activities  of  the  Gray  Seal, 
and  with  the  resumption  of  those  activities,  since,  as  in 
the  old  days,  those  "calls  to  arms"  of  hers  had  come 
again  he  knew  that,  at  least,  she  was  so  far  alive  and  safe. 

Jimmie  Dale  swung  from  the  window,  and  began  to 
pace  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room.  Safe — yes !  But  for 
how  long?  She  had  outwitted  those  against  her  up  to 
now,  but  for  how  long  would 

He  had  halted  abruptly  beside  the  table.  Some  one 
was  knocking  at  the  door. 

"Come !"  he  called. 

And  old  Jason  entered — and  it  seemed  to  Jimmie  Dale 


THE  LAST  CARD  187 

that  he  must  laugh  out  like  one  suddenly  over-wrought 
and  in  hysteria.  In  the  old  butler's  hand  was  a  silver 
card  tray,  and  on  the  tray  was — but  there  was  no  need  to 
look  on  the  tray,  old  Jason's  face,  curiously  mingling 
excitement  and  disquiet,  the  imperturbability  of  the  but- 
ler gone  for  the  nonce,  was  alone  quite  eloquent  enough. 
But  Jimmie  Dale,  master  of  many  things,  was  most  of  all 
master  of  himself. 

"Well,  Jason?"  His  voice  was  quiet  and  contained 
as  he  spoke.  He  reached  out  and  took  from  the  tray 
a  white,  unaddressed  envelope.  It  was  from  her,  of 
course — even  Jason  knew  that  it  was  another  of  those 
mysterious  epistles,  one  of  the  many  that  had  passed 
through  the  old  butler's  hands,  that  had  in  the  last  few 
years  so  completely  revolutionised,  as  it  were,  his,  Jim- 
mie Dale's,  mode  of  life.  "Well,  Jason  ?"  He  was  toy- 
ing with  the  envelope  in  his  hand.  "How  did  it  come  this 
time?" 

"It  was  In  another  envelope,  Master  Jim,  sir — ad- 
dressed to  me,  sir,"  explained  the  old  butler  nervously. 
"A  messenger  boy  brought  it,  sir.  I  opened  the  outside 
envelope,  Master  Jim,  and — and  I  knew  at  once,  sir, 
that — that  it  was  one  of  those  letters." 

"I  see."  Jimmie  Dale  smiled  a  little  mirthlessly. 
What,  after  all,  did  the  "how"  of  it  matter?  It  was  a 
foregone  conclusion  that,  as  it  had  been  a  hundred  times 
before,  it  would  avail  him  nothing  so  far  as  furnishing 
a  clue  to  her  whereabouts  was  concerned!  "Very  well, 
Jason."  His  tones  were  a  dismissal. 

But  Jason  did  not  go ;  and  there  was  something  more 
in  the  act  than  that  of  a  well-trained  servant  as  the  old 
man  stooped,  picked  up  the  newspaper  from  the  floor, 
and  folded  it  neatly.  He  laid  the  paper  hesitantly  on  the 
table,  and  began  to  fumble  awkwardly  with  the  silver 
tray. 


188       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"What  is  it,  Jason?"  prompted  Jimmie  Dale. 

"Well,  Master  Jim,  sir,"  said  Jason,  and  the  old  face 
grew  suddenly  strained,  "there  is  something  that,  begging 
your  pardon  for  the  liberty,  sir,  I  would  like  to  say.  I 
don't  know  what  all  these  strange  letters  are  about,  and 
it's  not  for  me,  sir,  it's  not  my  place,  to  ask.  But 
once,  Master  Jim,  you  honoured  me  with  your  confidence 
to  the  extent  of  saying  they  meant  life  and  death;  and 
once,  sir,  the  night  this  house  was  watched,  I  could  see 
for  myself  that  you  were  in  some  great  danger.  I — 
Master  Jim,  sir — I — I  am  an  old  man  now,  sir,  but  I 
dandled  you  on  my  knee  when  you  were  only  a  wee  tot, 
sir,  and — and  you'll  forgive  me,  sir,  if  I  presume  beyond 
my  station,  only — only — = — "  His  voice  broke  suddenly ; 
his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Jimmie  Dale's  hand  went  out,  both  of  them,  and  were 
laid  affectionately  on  the  old  man's  shoulders. 

"I  put  my  life  in  your  hands  that  night,  Jason,"  he  said 
simply.  "Goon.  What  is  it?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Thank  you,  Master  Jim,  sir."  Jason  swal- 
lowed hard;  his  voice  choked  a  little.  "It  isn't  much, 
sir,  I — I  don't  know  that  it's  anything  at  all ;  but  nights, 
sir,  when  I'm  sitting  up  for  you,  Master  Jim,  and  you 
don't  come  home,  I " 

"But  I've  told  you  again  and  again  that  you  are  not  to 
sit  up  for  me,  Jason,"  Jimmie  Dale  remonstrated  kindly. 

"Yes,  I  know,  sir."  Jason  shook  his  head.  "But  I 
couldn't  sleep,  sir,  anyway — thinking  about  it,  Master 
Jim,  sir.  I — well,  sir — sometimes  I  get  terribly  anxious 
and  afraid,  Master  Jim,  that  something  will  happen  to 
you,  and  it  seems  as  though  you  were  all  alone  in  this, 
and  I  thought,  sir,  that  perhaps  if — if  some  one — some 
one  you  could  trust,  Master  Jim,  could  do  something — 
anything,  sir,  it  might  make  it  all  right.  I — I'm  an  old 


THE  LAST  CARD  189 

man,   Master  Jim,   it — it   wouldn't   matter   about   me, 

and " 

Jimmie  Dale  turned  abruptly  to  the  table.  His  own 
eyes  were  wet.  These  were  not  idle  words  that  Jason 
used,  or  words  spoken  without  a  full  realisation  of  their 
meaning.  Jason  was  offering,  and  calling  it  presumption 
to  do  so,  his  life  in  place  of  his,  Jimmie  Dale's,  if  by  so 
doing  he  could  shield  the  master  whom  he  loved. 

"Thank  you,  Jason."  Jimmie  Dale  turned  again  from 
the  table.  "There  is  nothing  you  can  do  now,  but  if  the 

time  ever  comes "  He  looked  for  a  long  minute 

into  Jason's  face;  then  his  hands  were  laid  again  on  the 
other's  shoulders,  and  he  swung  the  old  man  gently 
around.  "There's  the  door,  Jason — and  God  bless  you !" 

Jason  went  slowly  from  the  room.  The  door  closed. 
For  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  held  a  letter  of  hers 
in  his  hand  Jimmie  Dale  was  for  a  moment  heedless  of 
it.  If  the  time  ever  came!  He  smiled  strangely.  The 
love  and  affection  that  had  come  with  the  years  of  Jason's 
service  were  not  all  on  one  side.  Not  for  anything  in 
the  world  would  he  put  a  hair  of  that  gray  head  in 
jeopardy!  It  was  not  lack  of  faith  or  trust  that  held 
him  back  from  taking  Jason  into  his  full  confidence — it 
was  the  possibility,  always  present,  that  some  day  the 
house  of  cards  might  totter,  the  Gray  Seal  be  discovered 
to  be  Jimmie  Dale,  and  in  the  ruin,  the  disaster,  the 
debacle  that  must  follow,  the  less  old  Jason  knew,  for 
old  Jason's  own  sake,  the  better!  It  was  the  one  thing 
that  would  save  Jason.  The  charge  of  complicity  would 
fall  to  the  ground  before  the  old  man's  very  ingenuous- 
ness! 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  sort 
of  whimsical  fatalistic  philosophy  upon  him,  and,  as  he 
tore  the  envelope  open,  he  sat  down  in  the  lounging  chair 
close  to  the  table.  Another  "call  to  arms"!  An  appeal 


190       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

for  some  one  else — never  for  herself!  He  shook  his 
head.  How  often  had  he  hoped  that  the  summons,  in- 
stead, would  prove  to  be  the  one  thing  he  asked  and  lived 
for — to  take  his  place  beside  her,  to  aid  her!  Not  one 
of  these  letters  had  he  ever  opened  without  the  hope 
that,  in  spite  of  the  intuition  which  told  him  his  hope 
was  futile,  it  would  prove  at  last  to  be  the  call  to  him 
for  herself !  Perhaps  this  one — he  was  eagerly  unfolding 
the  pages  he  had  taken  from  the  envelope — perhaps  this 
one — no ! — a  glance  was  enough — it  was  far  remote  from 
any  personal  relation  to  her 

"Dear  Philanthropic  Crook" — he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  as  his  eyes  travelled  hurriedly  over  the  opening 
paragraphs,  a  keen  sense  of  disappointment  upon  him, 
despite  the  intuition  that  had  bade  him  expect  nothing 
else — and  then  suddenly,  startled,  tense,  he  sat  upright, 
strained  forward  in  his  seat.  He  could  not  read  fast 
enough.  His  eyes  leaped  over  words  and  sentences. 

".  .  .  They  are  playing  their  last  card  to-night  .  .  . 
David  Archman  ...  it  is  murder,  Jimmie  .  .  .  letter 
signed  J.  Barca  .  .  .  Sixth  Avenue  stationer  .  .  .  Martin 
Moore  .  .  .  Gentleman  Laroque,  the  gangster  .  .  .  Nic- 
colo  Sonnino  .  .  .  end  house  to  left  of  courtyard  en- 
trance .  .  .  safe  in  rear  room  .  .  .  lives  alone  ...  to* 
night  .  .  ." 

For  a  moment  Jimmie  Dale  did  not  move  as  he  finished 
reading  the  letter,  save  that  his  fingers  began  to  tear  the 
pages  into  strips,  and  the  strips  over  and  over  again  into 
tiny  fragments — then,  mechanically,  he  dropped  the  piece? 
into  the  pocket  of  his  dinner  jacket  and  mechanically 
reached  for  the  newspaper  that  Jason  had  picked  up  and 
laid  on  the  table.  And  now  a  dull  red  burned  in  his  cheeks, 
and  the  square  jaw  was  clamped  and  hard.  Strange 
coincidence!  Yes,  it  was  strange — but  perhaps  it  was 
more  than  mere  coincidence !  He  had  an  interest,  a  very 


THE  LAST  CARD  191 

personal,  vital  interest  in  that  article  on  the  front  page 
now,  in  this  combine  of  those  who  were  frankly  of  the 
dregs  of  the  criminal  world  and  those  of  a  blacker  breed 
who  hid  behind  the  veneer  of  respectability  and  station. 

He  read  the  article  slowly.  It  was  but  the  resume  of 
the  case  that  had  been  under  investigation  for  the  past 
few  weeks,  the  sensation  it  had  created  the  greater  since 
the  publicity  so  far  given  to  it  had  but  hinted  darkly  at 
the  scope  of  the  exposure  to  come,  while  as  yet  no  names 
had  been  mentioned.  "The  Private  Club  Ring,"  as  set 
forth  in  the  paper,  operated  a  chain  of  what  purported  to 
be  small,  select  and  very  exclusive  clubs,  but  which  in 
reality  were  gambling  traps  of  the  most  vicious  descrip- 
tion— and  the  field  of  their  operations  was  very  wide  and 
exceedingly  lucrative.  Men  known  to  have  money, 
whether  New  Yorkers  or  from  out  of  town,  were  "intro- 
duced" there  by  "members"  whose  standing  and  pre- 
sumed respectability  were  beyond  reproach — and  they 
were  bled  white;  while,  to  add  variety  to  the  crooked 
games,  orgies,  revels  and  carousals  of  the  most  depraved 
character  likewise  furnished  the  lever  for  blackmail — 
the  "member"  ostensibly  being  in  as  bad  a  hole,  and  in 
as  desperate  a  predicament  as  the  "guest"  he  had  intro- 
duced ! 

The  article  told  Jimmie  Dale  nothing  new,  nothing  that 
he  did  not  already  know,  save  the  statement  that  the 
evidence  now  in  the  possession  of  the  authorities  was 
practically  complete,  and  that  the  arrest  and  disclosure 
of  those  involved  might  be  expected  at  any  moment. 

He  put  down  the  paper,  and  stood  up — and  for  the 
second  time  that  night  began  to  pace  the  room.  If  the 
article  had  told  him  nothing  new,  it  at  least  explained 
that  sentence  in  the  Tocsin's  letter — they  are  playing 
their  last  card  to-night.  They  must  strike  now,  or  never 
« — the  exposure  could  be  but  a  matter  of  a  few  hours  off  I 


193       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

A  face  crowned  with  its  gray  hair  rose  before  him,  a 
kindly  face,  grave  and  strong  and  fine,  the  face  of  a  man 
of  sterling  honesty  and  unimpeachable  integrity — the  face 
of  David  Archman,  the  assistant  district  attorney,  who 
had  both  instituted  and  was  in  charge  of  the  investiga- 
tion that  now  threatened  New  York  with  an  upheaval 
that  promised  to  shake  many  a  social  structure  to  its 
foundations.  Yes,  they  would  play  their  last  card,  a  vile, 
despicable  and  hellish  card — but  how  little  they  knew 
David  Archman!  They  would  break  his  life;  it  would, 
indeed,  as  the  Tocsin  had  said,  be  murder — but  they 
would  never  break  David  Archman's  unswerving  loyalty 
to  principle  and  duty !  They  had  tried  that — by  threats 
of  personal  violence,  by  the  offer  of  bribes  in  sums  large 
enough  to  have  tempted  many ! 

His  face  hard,  his  forehead  gathered  in  puzzled  fur- 
rows, Jimmie  Dale  stepped  to  the  door,  and  locked  it; 
then,  drawing  aside  the  portiere  that  hung  before  the  little 
alcove  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room,  knelt  down  before 
the  squat,  barrel-shaped  safe,  and  his  fingers  began  to 
play  over  the  knobs  and  dials. 

Yes,  it  was  a  vitally  personal  matter  now;  there  was 
an  added  incentive  to-night  spurring  the  Gray  Seal  on 
to  act  David  Archman  had  been  his  father's  closest 
friend;  and  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  himself  had  always  looked 
on  David  Archman,  and  with  reason,  as  little  less  than 
a  second  father.  His  frown  grew  deeper — he  did  not 
understand.  But  Tocsin  did  not  make  mistakes.  He  had 
had  evidence  of  that  on  too  many  occasions  when  he 
had  thought  otherwise  to  question  it  now — but  David 
Archman's  son  in  this!  It  seemed  incredible!  The  boy, 
he  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  scarcely  twenty,  was  and 
always  had  been,  perhaps,  a  little  wild,  but  a  thief,  an 
associate  and  accomplice  of  the  city's  worst  crooks  and 
criminals  was  something  of  which  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had 


THE  LAST  CARD  198 

never  dreamed  until  this  instant,  and  now,  while  it  stag- 
gered him,  it  brought,  too,  a  sense  of  merciless  fury — a 
fury  against  those  who  would  stab  like  inhuman  cow- 
ards, pitilessly,  at  the  father  through  the  son.  Their 
last  card !  The  safe  swung  open.  Their  last  card  was— • 
Clarie  Archman,  the  son ! 

He  reached  into  the  safe,  took  out  an  automatic,  and 
placed  it  in  his  pocket.  There  was  no  necessity  to  go  to 
the  Sanctuary — what  he  would  need  was  here  in  dupli- 
cate, and  it  would  be  Jimmie  Dale,  not  Smarlinghue^ 
who  played  the  role  of  the  Gray  Seal  to-night.  A  dozen 
small  steel  picklocks  in  graded  sizes  followed  the  revolver, 
and  after  these  a  black  silk  mask  and  a  pocket  flashlight-** 
the  thin,  metal  insignia  case  containing  the  little  diamond- 
shaped,  gray-coloured  paper  seals,  never  absent  from  his 
person  since  the  night  he  had  lost  and  recovered  it  again, 
was  already  reposing  in  an  inner  pocket  of  his  clothes. 

His  face  was  still  hard,  as  he  stood  up  and  closed  th<? 
safe.  The  way  out,  the  way  to  save  David  Archman 
was  plain,  of  course.  It  was  even  simple — if  it  was  not 
too  late!  And  the  way  out  was  another  "crime"  com- 
mitted by  the  Gray  Seal!  Instead  of  Clarie  Archman 
and  J.  Barca,  alias  Gentleman  Laroque,  robbing  the  safe 
of  one  Niccolo  Sonnino,  dealer  in  precious  stones,  it 
would  be  the  Gray  Seal — if  it  was  not  already  too 
late  to  forestall  the  others ! 

If  it  was  not  too  late!  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It 
was  twenty  minutes  after  eleven.  Yes,  there  should  be 
time;  but,  if  not — what  then?  And  what  of  that  letter? 
His  teeth  clamped.  Well,  he  would  try  it ;  and  he  would 
make  every  second  count  now !  He  was  lifting  the  tele- 
phone receiver  of  the  private  house  installation  now, 
calling  the  garage.  Benson,  his  chauffeur,  answered  him 
almost  on  the  instant. 


194       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"The  light  touring  car,  Benson,  please,  and  as  quickly 
as  possible,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  pleasantly. 

"Yes,  sir — at  once,"  Benson  answered. 

Jimmie  Dale  replaced  the  receiver  on  the  hook,  and, 
running  now  across  the  floor,  unlocked  the  door,  crossed 
the  hall,  and  entered  his  dressing  room.  Here,  h« 
changed  his  dinner  clothes  for  a  dark  tweed  suit — the 
location  of  Niccolo  Sonnino's  place  of  business  was  in  ai 
neighbourhood  where  one  in  evening  dress,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  would  not  go  unobserved — transferred  the 
metal  case  and  the  articles  he  had  taken  from  the  safe  to 
the  pockets  of  the  tweed  suit,  and  descended  the  stairs. 

Standing  in  the  hallway,  Jason,  that  model  of  effi- 
ciency, with  an  appraising  glance  at  his  master's  changed 
attire,  handed  Jimmie  Dale  a  soft  hat — and  opened  the 
door. 

"Benson  is  outside,  Master  Jim,"  said  Jason;  but  th& 
look  in  the  old  man's  eyes  was  eloquent,  far  beyond  the 
respectful  and  studied  quiet  of  his  words.  The  old  face 
was  pale  and  grave  with  anxiety. 

"It's  all  right,  Jason — all  right  this  time,"  Jimmie  Date 
smiled  reassuringly. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jason,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  hope 
so,  sir.  And,  begging  your  pardon,  Master  Jim,  sir,  I 
pray  God  it  is." 

And  for  answer  Jimmie  Dale  smiled  again,  and  passed 
down  the  steps,  and  entered  the  car.  But  the  smile  was 
gone  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat  after  giving  Benson 
his  directions — speed,  and  a  corner  a  few  blocks  away 
from  Chatham  Square — he  was  not  so  sure  that  it  was  all 
right.  It  was  entirely  a  question  of  time.  Given  the  time 
and  the  opportunity — Niccolo  Sonnino  out  of  the  road, 
for  instance — given  twenty  minutes  ahead  of  Clarie  Arch-. 
man  and  Gentleman  Laroque,  it  would  be  simple  enough. 
But  otherwise — his  lips  thinned — otherwise,  he  did  not 


THE  LAST  CARD  195 

know.  Otherwise,  there  was  promise  of  strange,  grim 
work  before  daylight  came,  work  that  might  lead  him  out 
of  necessity  to  the  role  of  Smarlinghue,  and  as  Smarling- 
hue — anywhere!  He  did  not  know;  he  knew  only  one 
thing — that,  at  any  cost,  if  it  lay  within  any  power  of  his 
to  prevent  it,  David  Archman  should  not  live  a  broken 
man. 

The  car  speeded  its  way  rapidly  along  in  a  downtown 
direction,  Benson  keeping,  wherever  possible,  to  the  un- 
frequented streets.  Jimmie  Dale,  busy  with  his  prob- 
lem, his  mind  sifting  and  turning  this  way  and  that  the 
curious,  and  in  some  cases  apparently  conflicting  details 
of  the  Tocsin's  letter,  paid  little  attention  to  his  sur- 
roundings, save  to  note  approvingly  from  time  to  time 
that  a  request  to  Benson  to  hurry  was  equivalent  to  some- 
thing perilously  near  to  a  contempt  of  speed  laws.  It 
still  seemed  incredible  that  Clarie  Archman  was  a  thief, 
a  safe-tapper,  even  if  but  an  amateur  one.  The  boy 
must  have  travelled  a  pace  of  late  that  was  fast  and 
furious.  How  had  he  ever  become  intimate  enough  with 
Gentleman  Laroque  to  be  associated  with  the  other  in 
such  a  crime  as  this?  How  had  Laroque  come  to  play 
a  part  in  the  miserable  scheme  of  trickery  that  was  the 
Private  Club  Ring's  last  card. 

Jimmie  Dale  shook  his  head  helplessly  at  the  first 
question — and  shook  it  again  at  the  second.  He  knew 
Laroque — and  he  knew  him  for  one  of  the  most  de- 
graded, as  well  as  one  of  the  most  dreaded,  gang  leaders 
in  crimeland.  Laroque,  in  unvarnished  language,  was  a 
devil,  and,  worse  still,  a  most  callous  devil.  Laroque 
stood  first  and  all  the  time  for  Laroque.  If  murder 
would  either  further  or  safeguard  Laroque's  personal 
interests,  Laroque  was  the  sort  of  man  who  would  stop 
only  to  consider,  not  whether  the  murder  should  be 
committed,  but  the  method  that  might  best  be  employed 


196       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

in  order  to  implicate  as  little  as  possible  one  Laroque! 
Also,  to  those  in  the  secrets  of  the  underworld,  Gentle- 
man Laroque  added  to  his  accomplishments,  or  had  done 
so  before  he  rose  to  the  eminence  of  gang  leader,  the 
profession  of  "box-worker" — not  a  very  clever  exponent 
of  the  art,  crude  perhaps  in  his  methods,  but  at  the  same 
time  efficacious,  as  a  dozen  breaks  and  looted  safes  in 
the  years  gone  by  bore  ample  witness. 

Grimly  whimsical  came  Jimmie  Dale's  smile.  Gentle- 
man Laroque  would  have  made  a  very  much  better  "con- 
fidence" man  than  safe-worker.  The  man  was  suave, 
polished  when  he  wanted  to  be,  educated;  he  possessed 
all  the  requisites,  and,  in  abundance,  the  prime  requisite 
of  all — a  cunning  that  was  the  cunning  of  a  fox.  This 
might  even  have  explained  his  acquaintanceship  with 
Clarie  Archman,  except  for  the  fact  that  it  did  not  explain 
Clarie  Archman's  co-operation  in  a  premeditated  robbery 
with  any  one ! 

Again  Jimmie  Dale  shook  his  head — and  there  came 
another  question,  one  for  which  no  answer,  even  of  a 
suggestive  nature,  had  been  supplied  in  the  Tocsin's  let- 
ter. Why  had  Niccolo  Sonnino's  safe  been  selected  as 
the  one  especial  and  desirable  nut  to  crack?  He  knevr 
Niccolo  Sonnino,  too,  in  a  general  way,  as  all  who 
resided  near  or  had  any  dealings  in  the  neighbourhood 
where  Sonnino  lived,  knew  the  man.  True,  combined 
with  a  small  trade  in  jewelry  and  precious  stones,  the 
former  cheap  and  the  latter  of  an  inferior  grade  to  fit 
the  purses  of  his  customers,  the  man  was  a  money-lender 
— but  in  an  equally  small  way.  Loans  of  minor  amounts, 
a  very  few  dollars  as  a  maximum,  was  probably  the  ex- 
tent of  Sonnino's  ventures  along  this  line.  Sonnino  him- 
self was  a  crafty  little  man,  but  craftiness,  if  it  did  not 
transgress  the  law,  was  not  a  crime ;  he  was  undoubtedly 
a  usurer  in  his  petty  way,  and  he  was  both  feared  and 


THE  LAST  CARD  197 

Disliked,  but  beyond  that  no  one  pretended  to  know  any- 
thing about  him.  Ordinarily,  Sonnino's  safe,  then,  might 
be  expected  to  be  rather  a  barren  affair,  hardly  a  lure 
for  a  Gentleman  Laroque  brand  of  crook!  Why,  then, 
Sonnino's  safe  to-night  ?  What  was  in  that  letter  signed 
"J.  Barca"  that  Clarie  Archman  had  received?  J.  Barca 
was  Gentleman  Laroque;  that  would  have  been  evident 
in  any  case,  even  if  the  Tocsin  had  not  expressly  said 
so — but  the  letter !  Did  the  letter,  apart  from  its  incrim- 
inating ingenuity,  supply  the  answer  to  his  question? 
Had  Sonnino,  for  instance,  by  some  lucky  turn,  disposed 
of  his  stock  in  bulk,  and  was  thus  for  the  moment  in 
possession  of  an  unusually  large  amount  of  cash;  or, 
inversely,  had  Sonnino  received  an  unusual  stock  of 
•stones  ?  Either  of  these  theories,  and  equally  neither  one 
of  them,  might  furnish  the  answer!  Jimmie  Dale 
shrugged  his  shoulders  grimly.  He  would  find  the  answer 
' — in  Sonnino's  safe !  One  thing,  however,  one  thing  that 
might  have  had  some  bearing  on  Laroque's  choice,  one 
thing  for  which  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  grateful  to  Laroque 
for  making  such  a  choice,  was  that  Sonnino's  place  lent 
itself  admirably  to  attack — from  the  standpoint  of  the 
attacker!  A  black  courtyard,  screened  completely  from 
the  street ;  a  house  that 

Jimmie  Dale  looked  up  suddenly,  and,  as  suddenly, 
leaning  forward,  he  touched  Benson's  shoulder.  They 
were  just  approaching  a  restaurant  and  music  hall  known 
as  "The  Sphinx,"  that  was  popular  for  the  moment  with 
the  slumming  parties  from  uptown. 

"This  will  do.  You  may  let  me  out  here  at  The  Sphinx, 
Benson,"  he  said  quietly;  and  then,  as  the  car  stopped: 
"I  shall  not  be  long,  Benson — perhaps  half  an  hour— \ 
wait  for  me." 

Benson  touched  his  cap.  Jimmie  Dale  ran  up  the  steps 
pf  the  restaurant,  entered,  threaded  his  way  through 


198       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

several  crowded  rooms  where  the  midnight  revelry  was 
in  full  swing — and  passed  out  of  the  place  by  a  convenient 
rear  exit  that  gave  on  the  adjoining  cross  street.  The 
car  standing  in  front  of  The  Sphinx  would  attract  no 
notice ;  and  he  was  now  on  the  same  street  as  Sonnino's 
place,  and  only  two  short  blocks  away. 

He  started  forward  from  the  restaurant  door — andf 
paused,  struggling  with  a  refractory  match  in  an  effort 
to  light  a  cigarette.  A  man  brushed  by  him,  making 
for  the  restaurant  door,  a  tall,  wiry-built,  swarthy,  sharp- 
featured  man — and  Jimmie  Dale  flipped  the  stub  of  hU 
match  away  from  him,  and  went  on.  Sonnino  himself? 
There  was  luck  then  at  the  start — the  coast  vras  clear  I 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT 

IT  was  one  of  those  countless  streets  on  the  East  Side 
each  so  identical  with  another — dark,  not  over  clean, 
flanked  on  both  sides  with  small  shops,  basement  stores 
and  tenement  dwellings  that  crowded  one  upon  the  other 
in  a  sort  of  helpless  confusion.  Jimmie  Dale  moved 
quickly  along.  The  whimsical  smile  was  back  on  his 
lips.  Sonnino,  whose  business,  the  money-lending  end 
of  it,  would  naturally  have  kept  him  late  at  work, 
was  now  evidently  intent  on  a  belated  meal;  Sonnino, 
therefore,  could  be  counted  upon  as  a  factor  eliminated 
for  at  least  the  next  half  hour — and  half  an  hour  was 
enough,  a  little  more  than  enough ! 

Jimmie  Dale  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight.  A  yard  ahead  of  him,  one  of 
those  relics  of  barbaric  architecture,  tunnelled  as  it 
were  through  the  centre  of  a  building  that  the  space  over- 
head might  not  be  wasted,  was  the  black  driveway  that 
gave  entrance  to  the  courtyard  behind,  where  Sonnino 
lived  alone  in  one  of  a  half  dozen  small,  tottering-from- 
age  frame  houses.  Jimmie  Dale  drew  closer  to  the  wall, 
came  opposite  the  driveway — and  disappeared  from  the 
street. 

It  was  the  Gray  Seal  now,  the  professional  Jimmie 
Dale,  as  silent  in  his  movements  as  the  shadows  about 
him.  He  traversed  the  driveway,  and  emerged  on  the 
courtyard.  Here,  it  was  scarcely  less  dark.  There  was 

199 


200       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DAI*fr 

no  moon,  and  no  lights  in  any  of  the  houses  that  made 
the  rear  of  the  courtyard.  He  could  just  discern  the 
houses  as  looming  shapes  against  the  sky  line,  that  was  all. 

He  crossed  the  courtyard,  and,  reaching  the  line  of 
door-stepless,  poverty-stricken  hovels — they  appeared  to 
be  little  more  than  that — crept  stealthily  along  to  the  end 
house  at  the  left,  halted  an  instant  to  press  his  face 
against  a  black  window  pane,  then  tried  the  door  cau- 
tiously. It  was  locked,  of  course.  Again  there  came  the 
whimsical  smile,  but  it  was  almost  hidden  now  by  the 
black  silk  mask  that  he  slipped  quickly  over  his  face. 
His  finger  tips,  that  were  like  a  magical  sixth  sense  to 
Jimmie  Dale,  embodying  all  the  other  five,  felt  tentatively 
over  the  lock,  then  slipped  into  his  pocket,  selected  unerr- 
ingly one  of  his  picklocks,  and  inserted  the  little  steel 
instrument  in  the  keyhole.  An  instant  more  and  the  door 
was  opening  without  a  sound  under  Jimmie  Dale's  hand. 
And  then,  the  door  open,  he  stepped  over  the  threshold, 
and,  in  the  act  of  closing  the  door  behind  him,  stood 
suddenly  rigid — and  where  the  whimsical  smile  had  been 
before,  his  lips  were  now  compressed  into  a  thin,  straight 
line. 

"What's  that?"  came  a  hoarse,  shaken  whisper  out  of 
the  blackness  beyond. 

"What's  what?"  demanded  another  voice — the  whisper 
this  time  sharp  and  caustic.  "I  didn't  hear  anything!" 

"Neither  did  I,"  admitted  the  first  speaker.  "It  wasn't 
that — it  was  like  a  draft  of  air — as  though  the  door  or  a 
window  had  been  opened." 

"Forget  it !"  observed  the  second  voice  contemp- 
tuously. "Cut  out  the  jumps — we've  got  to  get  through 
here  before  Sonnino  gets  back.  You'd  make  a  wooden 
Indian  nervous !" 

There  was  silence  for  an  instant,  then  a  curious  gnaw' 
ing  sound  punctuated  with  quick,  low,  metallic  rasps  as 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT  201 

of  a  ratchet  at  work — and  upon  Jimmie  Dale  for  a 
moment  came  stunned  dismay.  Time,  the  one  factor 
upon  which  he  had  depended,  was  lost  to  him;  Clarie 
Archman  and  Gentleman  Laroque  were  already  at  work 
in  there  in  that  room  beyond.  He  stood  motionless,  his 
brain  whirling;  and  then  slowly,  without  a  sound,  an 
inch  at  a  time,  he  began  to  close  the  door  behind  him. 
He  could  see  nothing;  but  the  door  connecting  the  two 
rooms  was  obviously  open — the  distinctness  with  which 
the  whispering  voices  had  reached  him  was  proof  of 
that.  They  were  working,  too,  without  light,  or  he 
would  have  got  a  warning  gleam  when  he  had  looked 
through  the  window.  And  now — what  now?  The  pick- 
lock was  shifted  to  his  left  hand,  as  he  drew  his  auto- 
matic from  his  pocket.  There  was  only  one  answer  to 
the  question — to  play  the  game  out  to  the  end,  whatever 
that  end  might  be ! 

Beneath  the  mask  his  face  drew  into  chiselled  lines, 
as  the  picklock  silently  locked  the  door.  There  was  one 
exit  from  that  inner  room,  and  only  one — through  the 
room  in  which  he  stood.  The  Tocsin  had  drawn  an 
accurate  word-plan  of  the  crude,  shack-like  place,  and 
now  in  his  mind  he  reconstructed  it  here  in  the  darkness. 
The  doorway  into  a  small  hall  that  led  to  the  stairs 
adjoined  the  doorway  of  that  inner  room  where  the  two 
were  now  at  work — and  in  that  room  were  no  windows,. 
it  was  a  sort  of  blind  cubby-hole  where  Niccolo  Sonnino 
transacted  his  most  private  business. 

Jimmie  Dale  crept  forward  up  the  room.  There  was 
tto  answering  creak  of  board  or  flooring,  no  sound  save 
that  gnawing  sound,  and  the  rasping  click  of  the  ratchet. 
His  place  of  vantage  was  against  the  wall  between  the 
two  doors — there,  he  could  both  command  the  exit  from, 
and  see  into,  the  inner  room,  while  the  doorway  into  the 
hall  provided  him  with  a  means  of  retreat  should  the 


202       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

necessity  arise.  And  then,  suddenly,  halfway  up  the 
room,  he  dropped  down  behind  what  was  evidently  a 
jeweller's  workbench.  A  whisper,  obviously  Laroque's 
this  time,  came  once  more  from  the  inner  room. 

"Shoot  the  flash  again!"  And  then,  savagely:  "Curse 
it,  not  on  the  ceiling!  Can't  you  hold  it  steady!  What 
the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you !" 

There  was  no  answer.  A  dull  glimmer  of  light  filtered 
through  the  doorway,  but  from  the  position  in  which  he 
lay  Jimmie  Dale  could  distinguish  nothing  in  the  inner 
room  itself. 

"All  right !    That'll  do !"  Laroque  growled  presently. 

The  light  went  out.  Jimmie  Dale  crept  forward  again. 
And  now  he  gained  the  rear  wall  of  the  room,  and 
crouched  down  close  against  it  between  the  two  door- 
ways. 

Came  the  sound  of  breathing  now,  heavy,  as  from  sus- 
tained exertion,  making  almost  an  undertone  of  the 
steady  click-click-click  of  the  ratchet,  and  the  sullen  gnaw 
of  the  bit.  The  minutes  passed.  The  flashlight  went 
on  again — and  Jimmie  Dale  strained  forward.  Two 
dark  forms,  backs  to  him,  were  outlined  against  the  face 
of  the  safe  which  was  at  the  far  side  of  the  room,  a  nickel 
dial  glistened  in  the  white  ray — he  could  make  out  nothing 
else. 

Then  darkness  again.  And  again,  after  a  time,  the 
flashlight.  Ten,  fifteen,  perhaps  twenty  minutes  dragged 
by.  Jimmie  Dale  might  have  been  a  shadow  moving 
against  the  wall  for  all  the  sound  he  made  as  he  changed 
his  cramped  position;  but,  just  below  the  mask,  his  lips 
were  pressed  fiercely  together.  Would  Gentleman  La- 
roque never  get  through!  Sonnino  was  not  only  likely 
to  return  in  a  very  few  minutes  now,  but  was  almost  cer- 
tain to  do  so.  Under  his  breath  Jimmie  Dale  cursed 
the  gangster's  bungling  methods — and  not  for  their 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT 

crudity  alone.  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  surprise  the 
two,  hold  them  up  at  the  revolver  point,  but  the  result 
of  such  an  act  would  have  been  abortive,  for  the  disfig- 
ured safe  would  stand  a  mute,  incontrovertible  witness 
to  the  fact  that  an  attempt  to  force  it  had  been  made — 
and,  whether  it  was  actual  robbery  or  attempted  robbery 
that  was  proved  against  the  son,  it  in  no  way  deflected 
the  blow  aimed  at  David  Archman.  And,  besides,  there 
was  the  letter!  If  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  been  in  time 
even  to  have  prevented  Gentleman  Laroque  from  sinking 
a  bit  into  the  safe,  the  letter  would  have  counted  not  at 
all — but  now  it  counted  to  the  extent  that  it  literally 
meant  life  and  death.  Who  had  it?  Not  Clarie  Arch- 
man— that  was  certain.  And  the  Tocsin  had  not  said — 
obviously  because  she,  too,  had  been  in  the  dark  in  that 
respect.  Therefore  he  could  only  wait,  watch  and  follow 
every  move  of  the  game  throughout  the  rest  of  the  night, 
if  necessary!  It  was  the  only  course  open  to  him;  the 
letter,  not  the  robbery,  was  paramount  now. 

A  curious,  muffled,  metallic  thump,  mingled  with  a 
quick,  low-breathed,  triumphant  oath,  came  suddenly 
from  the  inner  room — and  then  Laroque's  voice,  eager, 
the  words  clipped  off  as  though  in  feverish  elation: 

"There  she  is!  One  nice  little  job — eh?  Well,  come 
on — shoot  your  light  into  her,  and  let's  take  a  look  at 
the  Christmas  tree !" 

The  flashlight's  ray  flooded  the  interior  of  the  open 
safe.  Laroque,  on  his  knees,  laughed  suddenly,  and  thrust 
his  hand  inside. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  eh?"  he  chuckled.  "I  got  the 
straight  tip,  eh  ?  Four  thousand,  if  there's  a  cent !" 

Laroque  began  to  remove  what  were  evidently  packages 
of  banknotes  from  the  safe — but  Jimmie  Dale  was  no 
longer  watching  the  scene.  He  had  edged  suddenly  back 
into  the  doorway  of  the  hall,  and  was  listening  now  in- 


204       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

Gently.  A  footstep — he  could  have  sworn  he  had  caught 
the  sound  of  a  footstep — seemed  to  have  come  from 
just  outside  the  front  window.  But  all  was  still  again. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  mistaken.  No !  Slight  as  was  thg 
sound,  he  heard,  unmistakably  now,  a  key  grate  in  thi 
lock — and  then,  stealthily,  the  front  door  began  to  open 

A  bewildered  look  came  into  Jimmie  Dale's  face,  aj 
he  retreated  further  back  into  the  hallway  itself  now. 
It  was  probably  Sonnino;  but  why  did  Sonnino  come 
stealing  into  his  own  house  like — well,  like  any  one  of  the 
three  predatory  guests  already  there  before  him?  And 
then  Jimmie  Dale's  face  cleared.  Of  course !  From  the 
window  the  glow  of  the  flashlight  in  thei  inner  room  could 
be  seen.  Sonnino  was  forewarned,  and  undoubtedly- 
forearmed  ! 

The  front  door  closed  softly,  so  softly  that  had  Jimmie 
Dale,  supersensitive  as  his  hearing  was,  not  been  intent 
upon  it,  it  would  have  escaped  him.  The  glow  from  the 
inner  room,  faint  as  it  was,  threw  into  shadowy  relief 
a  man's  form  tiptoeing  forward — and  then  a  board 
creaked. 

"What's  that!"  came  in  a  wild  whisper  from  Clarie 
Archman. 

"Got  'em  again !"  Laroque  snapped  back.  "You  make 
me  tired!" 

"Let's  get  out  of  here !  Let's  get  out  of  here — quick !" 
Clarie  Archman's  voice,  not  so  low  now,  held  a  tone  of 
frantic  appeal. 

"Nix !"  said  Laroque,  in  a  vicious  sneer.  "Not  till  the 
job's  done !  D'ye  think  I'm  going  to  spend  half  an  hour 
cracking  a  safe  and  take  a  chance  of  missing  any  bets? 
We've  got  the  coin  all  right,  but  there  ought  to  be  one 
or  two  of  Sonnino's  sparklers  lying  around  in  some  of 
these  drawers,  and " 

There  was  a  click  of  an  electric-light  switch,  a  cry 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT  205 

from  Clarie  Archman,  the  inner  room  was  ablaze  with 
light,  and — Jimmie  Dale  had  edged  forward  again  out 
of  the  hallway — Sonnino,  revolver  in  hand,  was  standing 
just  over  the  threshold  facing  Gentleman  Laroque  and 
the  assistant  district  attorney's  son. 

Then  silence — a  silence  of  seconds  that  were  as  min- 
utes. And  then  Gentleman  Laroque  laughed  gratingly, 

"Hello,  Sonnino !"  he  said  coolly.  "A  little  late,  aren't 
you  ?  You've  kept  me  stalling  for  the  last  five  minutes. 
Know  my  friend — Mr.  Martin  Moore,  alias  Mr.  Clarie 
Archman?  Clarie,  this  is  Signer  Niccolo  Sonnino,  the 
proprietor  of  this  joint." 

And  then  to  Jimmie  Dale,  where  before  his  mind  had 
groped  in  darkness  to  reconcile  apparently  incongruous 
details,  in  a  flash  there  came  the  light.  The  "plant" 
was  a  little  more  intricate,  a  little  more  cunning,  a  little 
more  hellish — that  was  all ! 

The  boy,  white  to  the  lips,  was  swaying  on  his  feet, 
grasping  at  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Hfe 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  a  miserable,  dawning 
understanding  in  his  eyes. 

"You — you  know  my  name?"  His  voice  was  scarcely 
audible.  / 

"Sure!"  said  Laroque — and  yawned  insolently. 

"So !"  purred  Sonnino,  in  excellent  English.  "Is  it  so ! 
A  thief!  The  son  of  the  so-honest  Mister  Attorney — a 
thief!" 

"It's  a  He!"  The  boy's  hands,  clenched,  were  raised 
above  his  head,  and  then  shaken  almost  maniacally  in 
Gentleman  Laroque's  face.  "It's  a  lie !  I — I  don't  under- 
stand, but — but  you  two,  you  devils,  are  together  in 
this!" 

"Sure!"  retorted  Laroque,  as  insolently  as  before—- 
and flung  the  other's  hands  away.    "Sure,  we  are !" 
*     "It's  a  lie!"  said  the  boy  again.    "I  was  in  a  hole.    I 


S06       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

needed  money.  You  told  me  you  knew  a  man  who  would 
lend  it  to  me.  That's  why  I  came  here  with  you,  and 
then — and  then  you  held  me  here  with  your  revolver,  and 
began  to  open  that  safe." 

"Sure !"  returned  Laroque,  for  the  third  time.  "Sure — • 
that's  right!  Well,  what's  the  answer?" 

"This !"  cried  the  boy  wildly.  "I  don't  know  what  your 
game  is,  but  this  is  my  answer!  Do  you  think  I  would 
have  touched  that  money,  or  have  let  you — once  I  got  out 
of  here  where  I  could  have  got  help !  I'm  not  a  thief- 
whatever  else  I  may  be.  That's  my  answer!" 

Niccolo  Sonnino's  smile  was  oily. 

"It  is  a  little  late,  is  it  not?"  he  leered.  "Listen,  my 
little  young  friend;  I  will  tell  you  a  story.  You  work 
for  a  bank,  eh  ?  The  bank  does  not  like  its  young  men  to 
speculate — yes?  But  why  should  you  not  speculate  a 
little,  a  very  little,  if  you  like — if  you  get  the  very  private 
and  good  tips,  eh?  It  is  not  wrong — no,  certainly,  it  is 
not  wrong.  But  at  the  same  time  the  bank  must  not 
know.  Very  well!  They  shall  not  know — no  one  shall 
know.  You  are  not  the  young  Mr.  Archman  any  more, 
you  are — what  is  the  name  ? — Martin  Moore.  But  Mar- 
tin Moore  must  have  an  address,  eh?  Very  well!  On 
Sixth  Avenue  there  is  a  little  store  where  one  rents  boxes 
for  private  mail,  and  where  questions  are  never  asked— 
is  it  not  so,  my  very  dear  young  friend  ?" 

The  boy  was  staring  in  a  demented  way  into  Sonnino's 
face,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

"Aw,  hand  it  to  him  straight!"  Gentleman  Laroque 
broke  in  roughly.  "I  don't  want  to  hang  around  here  all 
night.  Here,  Archman,  you  listen  to  me!  We  piped 
you  off  on  that  lay  about  two  weeks  ago — and  it  looked 
good  to  us,  and  we  played  it  for  a  winner,  see  ?  You  got 
introduced  to  me,  and  found  me  a  pretty  good  sort,  and 
we  got  thick  together — you  know  all  about  that.  Also, 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT  207 

you  get  introduced  to  some  new  brokers,  who  said  they'd 
take  good  care  of  your  margins — maybe  they  only  ran  a 
bucket-shop,  but  you  didn't  know  it!  All  right!  You 
got  snarled  up  good  and  plenty.  Yesterday  you  were 
wiped  out,  and  three  thousand  dollars  to  the  bad  besides, 
and  they  were  yelling  for  their  money  and  threatening 
to  expose  you.  They  gave  you  until  to-morrow  morning 
to  make  good.  You  told  me  about  it.  I  told  you  this 
morning  I  thought  I  knew  a  man  who  would  lend  you 
the  coin,  and" — he  laughed  mockingly,  and  jerked  his 
hand  toward  the  safe — "well,  I  led  you  to  it,  didn't  I?" 

"I — I  don't  understand,"  the  boy  mumbled  helplessly. 

"Don't  you!"  jeered  Laroque.  "Well,  it  looks  big 
enough  for  a  blind  man  to  see !  We've  got  this  robbery 
wished  on  you  to  a  f are-thee-well !  A  young  man  who 
speculates,  who  uses  an  assumed  name,  and  runs  a 
private  letter  box  on  Sixth  Avenue,  and  has  forty-eight 
hours  in  which  to  square  up  his  debts  or  face  exposure, 
has  a  hell  of  a  chance  with  a  jury — not!" 

The  boy  circled  his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"But  why — why?"  he  whispered.  "I — I  never  did 
anything  to  you." 

"Sure,  you  didn't!"  Laroque's  tones  were  brutally 
amiable  now.  "It's  your  father.  We've  an  idea  that 
maybe  he  won't  be  so  keen  about  going  ahead  with  that 
little  investigation  of  the  private  clubs  after  we've  put 
a  certain  little  proposition  about  his  son  up  to  him." 

"No,  no!  No — you  won't!"  Qarie  Archman's  voice 
rose  suddenly  shrill,  beyond  control.  "You  won't!  You 
can't!  You're  in  it  yourselves" — he  pointed  his  finger 
wildly  at  one  and  then  the  other  of  the  two  men — "you — 
and  you !" 

"Think  so  ?"  drawled  Laroque.  "All  right,  you  tell  'em 
so — tell  the  jury  about  it,  tell  your  father,  who  is  such 
a  shark  on  evidence,  about  it  Sure,  I'm  in  on  it  with 


208       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

you — but  you  don't  know  who  I  am.  They'll  have  a  hot 
time  finding  J.  Barca,  Esquire  1  I'm  thinking  of  tak- 
ing a  little  trip  to  Florida  for  my  health,  and  my  valet's 
got  my  grip  all  packed !  Savvy  ?  And  now  listen  to  Son 
nino.  Sonnino's  a  wonder  in  the  witness  box.  Niccolo, 
tell  the  jury  what  you  know  about  this  unfortunate  young 
man." 

Sonnino,  a  wicked  grin  on  his  face,  made  a  dramatic 
flourish  with  the  hand  that  held  the  revolver. 

"Well,  I  was  asleep  upstairs.  I  wakened.  I  thought 
I  heard  a  noise  downstairs.  I  listened.  Then  I  got  up, 
and  went  down  the  stairs  quiet  like  a  mouse.  I  turned 
on  the  light  quick — like  this" — he  snapped  his  fingers. 
"Two  men  have  broken  open  my  safe,  and  they  have  my 
money,  a  lot  of  money,  for  I  keep  all  my  money  there; 
I  do  not  bank — no.  They  rush  at  me,  they  knock  me 
down,  they  make  their  escape,  but  I  recognise  one  of 
them — it  is  Mister  the  young  Archman,  who  I  have  many 
times  seen  at  The  Sphinx  Cafe — yes.  Well,  and  then  on 
the  floor  I  find  a  letter."  He  grinned  wickedly  again. 
"Have  you  the  letter  that  I  find — Mister  Barca?" 

"Sure,"  said  Gentleman  Laroque — and  reached  into  his 
pocket.  "It  was  addressed  to  Martin  Moore  on  Sixth 
Avenue,  wasn't  it?" 

"My  God !"  It  came  in  a  sudden,  pitiful  cry  from  the 
boy,  and  his  hand  involuntarily  went  to  his  own  pocket. 
"You — you've  got  that  letter !" 

"Do  you  think  you're  up  against  a  piker  game!"  ex- 
claimed Laroque  maliciously.  "Well  then,  forget  it! 
You  didn't  have  this  in  your  pocket  half  an  hour  before 
it  was  lifted  by  one  of  the  slickest  poke-getters  in  the 
whole  of  little  old  New  York."  He  was  taking  a  letter 
from  its  envelope  and  opening  out  the  sheet.  "That's  the 
kind  of  a  crowd  that's  in  on  this,  my  bucko!  Listen,  and 
I'll  read  the  letter.  It  looked  innocent  enough  when 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT  209 

you  got  it,  in  view  of  what  I  told  you  about  knowing  a 
sian  who  would  lend  you  the  money.  But  pipe  how  it 
sounds  with  Sonnino's  safe  bored  full  of  holes.  Are 
you  listening?  'It's  all  right.  Niccolo  Sonnino  has  got 
his  safe  crammed  full  to-night.  Meet  me  at  Bristol 
Bob's  at  eleven.  J.  Barca.'  " 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  Clarie  Archman  had 
dropped  into  a  chair,  and  had  buried  his  face  in  his  arms 
that  were  out-flung  across  the  table. 

Then  Laroque  spoke  again: 

"Do  you  see  where  you  stand — Clarie  ?  Tell  your  story 
• — and  it's  the  story  that  sounds  like  a  neat  'plant'  of  your 
lawyer's  to  get  you  off.  You  only  get  in  deeper  with 
the  jury  for  trying  to  trick  them,  see?  Here's  the  evi- 
dence— and  it's  got  you  cold.  Sonnino  recognises  you. 
The  letter  is  identified  at  the  Sixth  Avenue  place,  and 
you  are  identified  as  the  guy  that's  been  travelling  under 
the  name  of  Martin  Moore.  J.  Barca  has  flown  the  coop 
and  can't  be  found,  and — well,  I  guess  you  get  it,  don't 
you?" 

"What — what  do  you  want?"  The  boy  did  not  lift 
his  head. 

"We  want  your  father  to  let  up,  and  let  up  damned 
quick,"  said  Laroque  evenly.  "But  we'll  give  you  a 
chance  to  get  out  from  under,  and  you  can  take  it  or 
leave  it — it  doesn't  matter  to  us.  Your  father's  got  the 
papers  and  the  affidavits  in  the  'Private  Club'  case  in  his 
safe  at  home  to-night,  and  a  lot  of  those  affidavits  he  can 
never  replace — we've  seen  to  that !  All  right !  You've  got 
the  combination  of  the  safe.  Go  home  and  get  that  stuff 
and  bring  it  here.  If  it's  here  by  four  o'clock — that 
gives  you  about  three  hours — you're  out  of  it.  If  it 
isn't,  then  your  father  gets  inside  information  that  the 
gang  is  wise  to  the  fact  that  his  son  pulled  a  break  to- 
night, but  that  they  can  keep  Sonnino's  mouth  shut  if 


210       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

he  throws  up  the  sponge,  and  that  if  he  doesn't  call  it 
off  with  the  'Private  Club  Ring/  if  he's  so  blamed  fond 
of  prosecuting,  he'll  get  a  chance  to  prosecute  his  own 
son — as  a  thief!" 

The  boy  did  not  move. 

"And  just  one  last  word,"  added  Laroque  sharply. 
"Don't  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  if  you  refuse 
to  get  the  affidavits  it  puts  a  crimp  in  us.  It's  only  be- 
cause we're  playing  white  with  you,  and  to  give  you  a 
chance,  that  you're  getting  any  choice  at  all.  We  didn't 
intend  to  give  you  one,  but  we  don't  want  to  be  too 
rough  on  you,  so  if  you  want  to  get  out  that  way,  and 
will  agree  to  keep  on  queering  your  father's  game  if  he 
starts  it  over  again,  all  right.  But  you  want  to  under- 
stand that  we  hold  just  as  big  a  club  over  your  father's 
head  the  other  way." 

"White!  Playing  white !  Oh,  my  God!"  ClarieArch- 
man  had  lurched  up  from  the  chair  to  his  feet.  His 
face,  haggard  and  drawn,  was  the  face  of  one  damned, 

"Good-night !"  said  Laroque  callously.  "You  know  the 
way  out!  You've  got  till  four  o'clock.  If  you're  not 

back  here  then "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  signifi-* 

cantly.  "You  see,  I'm  not  even  asking  you  what  you 
are  going  to  do.  We  don't  care.  It's  up  to  you.  Either 
way  suits  us.  And  now — beat  it!" 

Jimmie  Dale  drew  back  for  a  second  time  that  night 
into  the  hallway.  A  step,  slow,  faltering,  unsteady,  like 
that  of  a  man  blinded,  passed  out  from  the  inner  room, 
and  passed  on  down  the  length  of  the  front  room — and 
the  door  opened  and  closed.  Clarie  Archman,  with 
God  alone  knew  what  purpose  in  his  heart,  was  gone. 

From  the  thin  metal  case,  by  means  of  the  tiny  tweez- 
ers, Jimmie  Dale  took  out  a  gray  seal,  laid  the  seal  on 
his  handkerchief,  folded  the  handkerchief  carefully, 
placed  it  in  his  pocket — and  crept  forward  toward  the 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT  211 

inner  door  again.  The  two  men  were  bending  over  the 
table,  over  the  money  on  the  table,  dividing  it.  Jimmie 
Dale's  lips  were  mercilessly  thin;  a  fury,  not  the  white, 
impetuous  heat  of  passion,  but  a  fury  that  was  cold, 
deadly,  implacable,  possessed  his  soul.  He  crept  nearer 
— still  nearer. 

"The  crowd  that  put  this  up  says  we  keep  it  between 
us  for  our  work,"  said  Laroque  shortly.  "A  third  for 
you,  the  rest  for  me.  You  sure  you  put  all  they  gave 
you  in  the  safe — Niccolo  ?"  He  screwed  up  his  eyes  sus- 
piciously. "You  sure  you  ain't  trying  to  hold  anything 
out  on  me  ?  If  you  are,  I'll  make  you " 

The  words  died  short  on  his  lips — his  jaw  sagged  help- 
lessly. 

Jimmie  Dale  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Niccolo,  drop  that  revolver !"  said  Jimmie  Dale  softly. 
His  automatic  held  a  bead  on  the  two  men. 

The  revolver  clattered  to  the  table  top.  Neither  of  the 
men  spoke — only  their  faces  worked  in  a  queer,  con- 
vulsive sort  of  way,  as  they  gazed  in  startled  fascination 
at  Jimmie  Dale. 

"Thank  you !"  said  Jimmie  Dale  politely.  He  stepped 
briskly  into  the  room,  shoved  Sonnino  unceremoniously 
to  one  side,  shoved  his  revolver  muzzle  none  too  gently 
Anto  Laroque's  ribs,  and  went  through  the  latter's  clothes. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  thought  quite  possibly  you  might  have 
one."  He  pocketed  Laroque's  revolver,  and  also  Son- 
nino's  from  the  table.  "And  now  that  letter — thank  you !" 
He  whipped  the  letter  from  Laroque's  inside  coat  pocket 
and  transferred  it  to  his  own,  then  stepped  back,  and 
smiled — but  the  smile  was  not  inviting.  "I've  only  about 
five  minutes  to  spare,"  murmured  Jimmie  Dale.  "I'm  in  a 
hurry,  Niccolo.  I  see  some  wrapping  paper  and  string 
over  there  on  top  of  the  safe.  Get  it !" 

The  man  obeyed  mechanically,  in  a  stupefied  sort  x>* 


way,  and  placed  several  of  the  sheets  and  a  quantity  of 
string  upon  the  table.  Laroque,  silent,  sullen,  under  the 
spell  of  Jimmie  Dak's  automatic,  watched  the  proceedings 
without  a  word. 

"Now,"  said  Jimmie  Dale,  and  an  icy  note  began  to 
creep  into  the  velvet  tones,  "you  two  are  going  to  make 
the  first  charitable  contribution  you  ever  made  in  your 
lives — say,  to  one  of  the  city  hospitals.  Make  as  neat  and 
as  small  a  parcel  of  that  money  as  you  can,  Niccolo." 

"Not  by  a  damned  sight!"  Laroque  roared  out  sud- 
denly. "Who  the  blazes  are  you!  Curse  you,  I " 

He  shrank  hastily  back  before  the  ominous  outthrust  eft 
Jimmie  Dale's  automatic. 

"Wrap  it  up,  Niccolo,  and  tie  a  string  around  it!'* 
snapped  Jimmie  Dale. 

And  again,  but  snarling,  cursing  now,  the  man  obeyed. 

Jimmie  Dale's  hand  went  into  his  pocket,  and  came  out 
with  his  handkerchief.  He  carried  the  handkerchief  to 
his  mouth,  moistened  the  adhesive  side  of  the  gray 
paper  seal,  and  pressed  the  handkerchief  down  upon  the 
top  of  the  parcel. 

"It  would  hardly  do  for  any  one  to  know  where  the 
money  really  came  from — would  it?"  observed  Jimmie 
Dale,  and  smiled  uninvitingly  again. 

The  two  men  were  leaning,  straining  forward,  their 
eyes  on  the  diamond-shaped  gray  seal — and  into  their 
faces  there  crept  a  sickly  fear. 

"The  Gray  Seal !"    Sonnino  stumbled  the  words. 

"Put  an  outside  wrapper  around  that  package!"  in- 
structed Jimmie  Dale  coldly.  He  watched  Sonnino  per- 
form the  task  with  trembling  fingers;  and  then,  placing 
the  package  under  his  arm,  Jimmie  Dale  backed  to  the 
door.  There  was  a  key  in  the  lock  on  the  inner  side.  He 
transferred  it  coolly  to  the  outer  side — and  his  voice 
rasped  suddenly  with  the  fury  that  found  vent  at  last 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT  213 

•'You  are  a  pair  of  hell  hounds,"  he  said  between  his 
teeth ;  "but  you  are  angels  compared  with  the  gang  that 
h'ired  you  for  this.  Well,  the  game  is  up !  David  Arch- 
ttian  will  settle  with  them  when  they  face  the  investiga- 
tion— and  I  will  settle  with  you!  One  night,  a  year  ago, 
in  last  January,  a  certain  Fourth  Avenue  bank  was 
tooted  of  eighteen  thousand  dollars — do  you  remember, 
Laroque?  Ah,  I  see  you  do !  The  police  are  still  look- 
ing for  the  man  who  pulled  that  job.  What  would  you 
say,  Laroque,  would  be  the  sentence  handed  out  for  that 
little  affair  to  a  man  with,  say,  your  past  record?" 

Laroque's  lips  were  twitching ;  his  face  had  gone  gray. 

"Fourteen  years  would  be  a  light  sentence,  wouldn't 
»t  ?"  resumed  Jimmie  Dale,  an  even  colder  menace  in  his 
woice.  "And  you  remember  Stangeist,  and  the  Mope, 
«tnd  Australian  Ike,  don't  you,  Laroque — you  remember 
they  went  to  the  death  house  in  Sing  Sing — and  you  re- 
member that  the  Gray  Seal  sent  them  there?  Yes,  I  see 
you  do;  I  see  your  memory  is  good  to-night!  Listen, 
tken!  I  have  heard  it  said  that  Gentleman  Laroque, 
with  his  gangsters  behind  him,  would  stop  at  nothing 
where  Gentleman  Laroque's  own  skin  was  concerned.  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  where  Gentleman  Laroque  was 
known  he  was  feared.  Very  well,  Laroque,  it  is  your  turn 
to  choose.  You  can  choose  between  yourself  and  this 
'Private  Club  Ring'  who  have  purchased  your  services 
in  this  game  to-night.  I  fancy  you  can  find  a  means  of 
inducing  Sonnino  here  to  keep  his  mouth  shut;  and  I 
fancy  that  of  the  two  evils — holding  young  Archman  as 
a  club  over  his  father,  or  of  your  employers  facing  their 
trial  and  conviction — you  can  convince  the  'Private  Club 
Ring'  that  the  lesser,  the  lesser  as  regards  your  risk, 
«ay,  is  to  face  that  trial  and  conviction.  Do  I  make 
myself  plain — Laroque  ?  It  is  simply  a  question  of  not  a 
word  being  said  of  what  has  happened  to-night — or  four- 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

teen  years  in  Sing  Sing  for  you !  I  do  not  think  you  will 
find  the  task  difficult  when  you  add,  to  whatever  argu- 
ments of  your  own  you  may  see  fit  to  employ,  the  fact 
that  the  Gray  Seal,  if  your  principals  make  a  move,  will 
expose  them  for  this  night's  work  on  top  of  what  they 
will  already  have  to  answer  for.  Well — Laroque?" 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute.  Sonnino,  cringing, 
the  suavity,  the  oiliness  of  manner  gone,  a  man  afraid, 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  table,  and  kept  passing  his  hands 
one  over  the  other.  Laroque  was  the  gambler — a  twisted 
smile  was  forced  to  his  lips. 

"You  win,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "You  can  take  it  from 
me,  I'll  go  up  the  river  for  fourteen  years  for  no  one — > 
I'll  take  blasted  good  care  of  that!  But  you" — a  rage, 
ungovernable  and  elemental,  found  voice  in  a  sudden 
torrent  of  blasphemous  invective — "you — we'll  get  you 
yet !  Some  day  we'll  get  you,  you  cursed  snitch,  you " 

"Good-night !"  said  Jimmie  Dale  grimly,  and,  stepping 
swiftly  back  over  the  threshold,  shut  and  locked  the  door. 

He  gained  the  street,  gained  his  car  in  front  of  The 
Sphinx — and,  twenty  minutes  later,  after  a  break-neck 
run  in  which  Benson  for  the  second  time  that  night  defied 
all  speed  laws,  Jimmie  Dale  alighted  from  his  car  at  a 
street  corner  well  uptown,  dismissed  Benson  for  the  night, 
retraced  his  way  half  the  distance  back  along  the  block, 
disappeared  into  a  lane,  and  presently,  taking  a  high 
fence  with  the  agility  of  a  cat  in  spite  of  his  encumber- 
ing package,  dropped  noiselessly  down  into  a  backyard. 

It  was  well  known  ground  to  Jimmie  Dale — as  a  boy 
he  had  played  here  in  the  Archman's  backyard,  played 
here  with  Clarie  Archman.  His  face  masked  again,  he 
moved  swiftly  toward  the  rear  of  the  house.  There  was 
still  Clarie  Archman.  What  would  the  boy  do?  Jim- 
mie Dale's  hand,  a  picklock  in  it  again,  clenched  fiercely. 
It  was  a  hell's  choice  they  had  given  the  boy — to  rob  his 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT  215 

father,  or  go  down  himself,  and  drag  his  father  with 
him,  in  ruin  and  disgrace!  What  would  the  boy  do? 
Jimmie  Dale  was  working  silently  at  the  back  door  now. 
It  opened,  and  he  stepped  inside.  He  was  here  well 
ahead  of  the  other,  there  was  no  possibility,  granting  even 
the  start  the  boy  had  had,  that  Qarie  Archman  could 
have  made  the  trip  uptown  in  the  same  time.  It  was 
more  likely  that  the  boy  might  even  linger  a  long  while 
in  misery  and  indecision  before  he  came  home.  That  was 
why  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  dismissed  Benson  and  the  car 
for  the  night,  and 

With  a  mental  jerk,  Jimmie  Dale  focused  his  mind  on 
his  immediate  surroundings.  It  was  dark;  there  were 
no  lights  in  any  part  of  the  house,  but  he  needed  none, 
not  even  his  flashlight — he  knew  the  house  as  well  and 
is  intimately  as  his  own.  He  was  in  the  rear  hall  now, 
ind  now  he  opened  a  door,  paused  cautiously  as  the  dull 
yellow  glow  from  a  dying  grate  fire  illuminated  the  room 
faintly,  then  stepped  inside.  It  was  the  Archman  library, 
the  room  where  David  Archman  did  a  great  deal  of  his 
work  at  night.  A  desk  stood  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
room ;  and  in  the  corner  near  the  portiered  windows  was 
the  lawyer's  safe. 

Jimmie  Dale  closed  the  door,  moved  toward  the  win- 
dow, drew  the  portieres  aside,  released  the  window  catch, 
and  silently  raised  the  window  itself — it  was  only  a  drop 
of  a  few  feet  to  the  yard!  And  then  Jimmie  Dale  sat 
iown  at  the  desk. 

A  clock  somewhere  in  the  house  struck  a  single  note — • 
that  would  be  halfpast  one.  Time  passed  slowly,  in- 
•erminably.  The  clock  struck  again — two  o'clock.  And 
then  suddenly  Jimmie  Dale  rose  from  his  chair,  and 
slipped  into  the  window  recess  behind  the  portieres.  The 
front  door  closed,  a  step  came  along  the  hall,  the  library 
door  opened,  closed  again — and  Clarie  Archman,  his  fare, 


216       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

as  the  flickering  firelight  played  upon  it,  like  a  face  flf 
death,  came  forward  into  the  room. 

For  a  moment  the  boy  held  motionless  beside  the  dssk, 
his  eyes  fixed  in  a  sort  of  horrible  fascination  upon  the 
safe — and  then,  slowly,  he  moved  toward  it,  and  dropped 
on  his  knees  before  it,  and  his  fingers  began  to  twirl  the 
knob  of  the  dial.  His  fingers  shook,  and  he  was  a 
long  time  at  his  task — and  then  the  handle  turned,  and 
the  safe  was  unlocked,  but  Clarie  Archman  did  not  open 
the  door.  Instead,  he  drew  back  suddenly,  and  ros? 
swaying  to  his  feet,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"I  can't !  Oh,  my  God,  I— I  can't !"  he  moaned.  H* 
lowered  his  hands  after  a  moment,  and  gazed  around 
him  unseeingly,  a  queer,  ghastly  look  came  into  his  face 
"I — I  guess — I  guess  there's  only  one — one  way  to-^to 
beat  them,"  he  whispered.  "One  way  to  beat  them 
and " 

The  package  in  Jimmie  Dale's  hand  dropped  suddenly 
to  the  floor,  he  wrenched  the  portieres  aside,  and,  witB 
a  low,  sharp  cry,  sprang  forward.  The  boy  had  taken  p 
revolver  from  his  pocket,  and  was  lifting  it  to  his  head 
Jimmie  Dale  struck  up  the  other's  hand — but  in  tim* 
only  to  deflect  the  shot;  too  late  to  prevent  it  being  fired, 
There  was  a  flash  in  mid-air,  the  roar  of  the  report  wen* 
racketing  through  the  silent  house,  and  the  revolver, 
Spinning  from  the  other's  hands,  struck  against  the  wall 
across  the  room. 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  had  the  boy  by  the  shoulder?" 
and  was  shaking  him  violently.  Clarie  Archman  was  lik*  t 
one  stunned,  numbed,  and  bereft  of  his  senses. 

"It's  all  right — you're  clear!  Do  you  hear — try  an<l 
understand — you're  clear!"  Jimmie  Dale  whispered 
fiercely.  "Here's  your  letter!"  He  thrust  it  into 
the  other's  hand.  "Destroy  it!  Those  men — Soi>- 
nino — Barca — will  say  nothing.  You  don't  owe  anybody 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  ACT  217 

any  money — that  bucket-shop  was  in  the  game  with  the 

rest,  and "  Cries,  voices,  were  coming  from  above 

now ;  and  Jimmie  Dale,  like  a  flash,  turned  from  the  boy, 
leaped  for  the  safe,  wrenched  the  door  open,  reached 
in  with  both  hands,  and,  snatching  up  an  armful  of  the 
contents,  spilled  books  and  papers  on  the  floor.  He  was 
back  beside  the  boy  in  an  instant.  "Listen !  You  heard 
some  one  in  here  as  you  entered  the  house — you  came 
into  the  room — you  caught  me  in  the  act — you  fired — you 
missed.  And  now — fight!  Fight — pull  yourself  together 
— fight.  They  are  coming!" 

He  caught  the  boy  around  the  waist,  and  the  two, 
locked  together,  reeled  this  way  and  that  about  the  room. 
A  chair,  deliberately  kicked  over  by  Jimmie  Dale,  crashed 
to  the  floor.  The  cries  drew  nearer.  Footsteps  came 
racing  madly  down  the  stairs — and  then  the  door  of  the 
library  burst  open,  and  David  Archman,  in  pajamas,, 
dashed  through  the  doorway,  and  without  a  second's  hesi- 
tation, made  for  the  two  struggling  forms — and  Jimmie 
Dale,  releasing  his  hold  upon  the  boy,  suddenly  sent  the 
other  staggering  backwards  full  into  David  Archman, 
checking  David  Archman's  rush — and,  turning,  sprang 
for  the  window,  snatched  up  his  package,  hurled  himself 
over  the  sill,  dropped  to  the  ground,  and,  racing  for  the 
fence,  climbed  it,  and  made  the  lane,  just  as  a  shot,  from 
David  Archman,  no  doubt,  was  fired  from  the  window. 

A  moment  more,  and  Jimmie  Dale,  his  mask  in  his 
pocket,  had  emerged  from  the  lane,  and  was  walking 
nonchalantly  along  to  the  street  corner;  another,  and  he 
had  boarded  a  street  car — but  under  Jimmie  Dale's  coat 
was  a  most  suspicious  bulge.  Conscious  of  this,  he  left 
the  street  car  a  few  blocks  farther  along,  when  he  was 
far  enough  away  to  be  certain  that  he  would  have  eluded 
all  pursuit — and  walked  the  rest  of  the  distance  to  River- 
side Drive.  If  he  had  escaped  unscathed,  the  package 


218       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

of  banknotes  had  not — it  was  his  coat  that  shielded  them 
from  view,  not  the  wrappers,  for  the  wrappers  had  been 
torn  almost  entirely  away  in  his  hasty  exit  over  the 
fence. 

He  reached  his  home,  and  mounted  the  steps  cautiously. 
There  was  Jason  to  consider — Jason  with  his  lovable 
pernicious  habit  of  sitting  up  for  his  master.  Jason 
must  not  see  those  banknotes,  that  was  obvious,  and  if 
Jason — yes ! — Jimmie  Dale  was  peering  now  through  the 
monogrammed  lace  that  covered  the  plate  glass  doors  in 
the  vestibule — yes,  Jason  was  still  sitting  up.  And  then 
Jimmie  Dale  smiled  that  strange  whimsical  smile  of  his. 
Jason  was  still  sitting  up — asleep  in  the  hall  chair. 

Softly,  without  a  sound,  Jimmie  Dale  opened  the  front 
door,  entered,  passed  the  old  man,  and  went  up  the  stairs. 
In  his  dressing  room,  he  hid  away  the  package  that  to- 
morrow, or  at  the  first  opportunity,  would  enrich  some 
deserving  charity,  and,  as  silently  as  he  had  come  up  the 
stairs,  he  descended  them  again,  passed  by  the  old  man 
again,  and  went  out  to  the  street  once  more.  There  was 
just  one  reason  why  Jason,  tired  out  and  asleep,  sat  there 
• — only  one — because  Jason,  old  Jason,  faithful,  big- 
hearted  Jason,  loved  his  Master  Jim. 

Into  Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  there  came  a  mist.  Perhaps 
that  was  why,  because  he  could  not  see  clearly,  that  he 
stumbled  on  his  way  up  the  steps  again;  perhaps  that 
was  why  he  made  so  much  noise  that  it  was  Jason  who 
opened  the  door  and  held  out  his  hands  for  Jimmie  Dale's 
coat  and  hat. 

"What !"  said  Jimmie  Dale  severely.  "Sitting  up  again, 
Jason?  Jason,  go  to  bed  at  once!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jason.  "Thank  you,  sir.  Thank  you, 
Master  Jim,  sir — I  will." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ONE   CHANCE  IN   TEN 

IT  was  three  nights  later.  Old  Jason  had  placed  a 
tray  with  after-dinner  coffee  and  a  liqueur  set  on 
the  table  at  Jimmie  Dale's  elbow — that  was  fully  an 
hour  ago,  and  both  coffee  and  liqueur  were  untouched. 
Things  were  not  going  well.  Apart  entirely  from  all 
lack  of  success  where  the  Tocsin  was  concerned,  things 
were  not  going  well.  The  fate  of  Frenchy  Virat,  the 
fate  of  the  Wolf,  and,  added  to  this,  the  Gray  Seal's 
intervention  in  the  plans  and  purposes  of  one  Gen- 
tleman Laroque  and  certain  gentlemen  still  higher  up 
than  Laroque,  had  not  passed  unmarked  or  unnoticed 
in  the  underworld.  And  now  in  the  underworld  a 
strange,  ominous  and  far-reaching  disquiet  reigned.  It 
was  an  underworld  rampant  with  suspicion,  mad  with 
fury,  more  dangerous  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

Jimmie  Dale's  hand  reached  abstractedly  into  the 
pocket  of  his  dinner  jacket  for  his  cigarette  case'.  He 
lighted  a  cigarette,  leaned  back  once  more  in  the  big, 
leather-upholstered  lounging  chair,  and  his  eyes,  half 
closed,  strayed  introspectively  around  the  luxuriously  ap- 
pointed room,  his  own  particular  den  in  his  Riverside 
Drive  residence.  Once,  a  very  long  while  ago,  years 
ago,  so  long  ago  now  that  it  seemed  as  though  it  must 
have  been  in  some  strange  previous  incarnation,  back 
in  those  old  days  when  the  Tocsin  had  first  come  into 
his  life,  and  when  he  had  known  her  only  as  the  authof 

219 


220       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

of  those  mysterious  letters,  those  "calls  to  arms"  to  the 
Gray  Seal,  she  had  written:  "Things  are  a  little  too 
warm,  aren't  they,  Jimmie?  Let's  let  them  cool  for  a 
year." 

A  blue  thread  curled  lazily  upward  from  the  tip  of  the 
cigarette.  Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  fastened  mechanically 
on  the  twisting,  wavering  spiral,  followed  it  mechanically 
as  it  rose  and  spread  out  into  filmy,  undulating,  fan- 
tastic shapes — and  the  strong,  square  jaw  set  suddenly 
hard.  It  was  not  so  very  strange  that  those  words  should 
have  come  back  to  him  to-night!  Things  were  "warm" 
now — and  he  could  not  let  them  "cool"  for  a  year ! 

"Warm!"  He  smiled  a  little  mirthlessly.  The  com- 
parison was  very  slight !  Then,  at  the  beginning,  at 
the  outset  of  the  Gray  Seal's  career,  the  police,  it  was 
true,  had  shown  a  certain  unpleasant  anxiety  for  a  closer 
acquaintanceship,  but  that  was  about  all.  To-day,  lashed 
on  and  mocked  by  a  virulent  press,  goaded  to  madness 
by  their  own  past  failures  to  "get"  the  Gray  Seal,  to 
whose  door  they  laid  a  hundred  crimes  and  for  whom 
the  bars  of  a  death  cell  in  Sing  Sing  was  the  goal  if 
they  could  but  catch  their  prey,  the  police,  to  a  man, 
were  waging  a  ceaseless  and  relentless  war  against  him; 
and  to-day,  joining  hands  with  the  police,  the  under- 
world in  all  its  thousand  ramifications,  prompted  by 
fear,  by  suspicion  of  one  another,  reached  out  to  trap 
him,  and  to  deal  out  to  him  a  much  more  speedy,  but 
none  the  less  certain,  fate  than  that  prescribed  by  the 
statutes  of  the  law! 

He  shook  his  head.  It  could  not  go  on — indefinitely. 
The  role  was  too  hard  to  play;  the  dual  life,  in  a  sort 
of  grim,  ironical  self-mockery,  brought  even  in  its  own 
successful  interpretation  added  dangers  and  perils  with 
each  succeeding  day.  As  it  had  been  with  Larry  the 
Bat,  the  more  he  now  lived  Smarlinghue  the  more  it 


ONE  CHANCE  IN  TEN 

became  difficult  to  slough  off  Smarlinghue  and  live  as 
Jimmie  Dale ;  the  more  Smarlinghue  became  trusted  and 
accepted  in  the  inner  circles  of  the  underworld,  the 
more  he  became  a  figure  in  those  sordid  surroundings, 
and  the  more  dangerous  it  became  to  "disappear"  at  will 
without  exciting  suspicion,  where  suspicion,  as  it  was, 
was  already  spread  into  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
Bad  Lands,  where  each  rubbed  shoulders  with  his  fel- 
low in  the  lurking  dread  that  the  other  was — the  Gray 
Seal! 

The  police  were  no  mean  antagonists,  he  made  no  mis- 
take on  that  score;  but  the  peril  that  was  the  graver 
menace  of  the  two,  and  the  greater  to  be  feared,  was — 
the  underworld.  And  here  in  the  underworld  in  the 
last  few  days,  here  where  on  every  twisted,  vicious  lip 
was  the  whisper,  "Death  to  the  Gray  Seal,"  there  had 
come  even  another  menace.  He  could  not  define  it,  it 
was  intuition  perhaps — but  intuition  had  never  failed  him 
yet.  It  was  an  undercurrent  of  which  he  had  grad- 
ually become  conscious,  the  sense  of  some  unseen,  guid- 
ing power,  that  moved  and  swayed  and  controlled,  and 
was  present,  dominant,  in  every  den  and  dive  in  crime- 
land.  There  had  been  many  gang  leaders  and  heads  of 
little  coteries  of  crime,  cunning,  crafty  in  their  way,  and 
all  of  them  unscrupulous,  like  the  Wolf,  for  instance, 
who  had  sworn  openly  and  boastingly  through  the  Bad 
Lands,  and  had  been  believed  for  a  season,  that  they 
would  bring  the  Gray  Seal  to  a  last  accounting — but 
it  was  more  than  this  now.  There  was  a  craftier  brain 
and  a  stronger  hand  at  work  than  the  Wolf's  had  ever 
been!  Who  was  it?  He  shook  his  head.  He  did  not 
know.  He  had  gone  far  into  the  innermost  circles  of 
the  underworld — and  he  did  not  know.  He  sensed  a 
power  there;  and  in  a  dozen  different,  intangible  ways, 
still  an  intuition  more  than  anything  else,  he  had  sensed 


222       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

this  "some  one,"  this  power,  creeping,  fumbling,  feeling 
its  implacable  way  through  the  dark,  as  it  were,  toward 
him. 

Yes,  it  was  getting  "warm" — perilously  warm!  And 
inevitably  there  must  come  an  end — some  day.  The 
warning  stared  him  in  the  face.  But  he  could  not  stop, 
could  not  heed  the  warning,  could  not  let  things  "cool" 
now  for  a  year,  and  stand  aside  until  the  storm  should 
have  subsided!  Where  was  the  Tocsin?  If  his  peril 
was  great — what  was  hers! 

He  surged  suddenly  upward  from  his  chair,  his  hands 
clenched  until  the  knuckles  stood  out  like  ivory  knobs. 
The  Tocsin!  The  woman  he  loved — where  was  she? 
Was  she  safe  to-night f  Where  was  she?  He  could 
not  stop  until  that  question  had  been  answered,  be  the 
consequences  what  they  might!  Warnings,  the  realisa- 
tion of  peril — he  laughed  shortly,  in  grim  bitterness — 
counted  little  in  the  balance  after  all,  did  they  not! 
Where  was  the  Tocsin? 

The  telephone  rang.  Jimmie  Dale  stared  at  the  in- 
strument for  a  moment,  as  though  it  were  some  singular 
and  uninvited  intruder  who  had  broken  in  without  war- 
rant upon  his  train  of  thought;  and  then,  leaning  for- 
ward over  the  table,  he  lifted  the  receiver  from  the  hook. 

"Yes?  Hello!  Yes ?"  inquired  Jimmie  Dale.  "What 
is  it?" 

A  man's  voice,  hurried,  and  seemingly  somewhat  agi- 
tated, answered  him. 

"I  would  like  to  speak  to  Mr.  Dale — to  Mr.  Dale  in 
person." 

"This  is  Mr.  Dale  speaking,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  a  little 
brusquely.  "What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Dale?"  The  voice  had  quick- 
ened perceptibly.  "I  didn't  recognise  your  voice — but 
then  I  haven't  heard  it  for  a  long  while,  have  I?  This 


ONE  CHANCE  IN  TEN  223J 

is  Forrester.  Are — are  you  very  busy  to-night,  Mr. 
Dale?" 

"Oh,  hello,  Forrester!"  Jimmie  Dale's  voice  had 
grown  more  affable.  "Busy?  Well,  I  don't  know.  It 
depends  on  what  you  mean  by  busy." 

"An  hour  or  two,"  the  other  suggested — the  tinge  of 
anxiety  in  his  tones  growing  more  pronounced.  "The 
time  to  run  out  here  in  your  car.  I  haven't  any  right  to 
ask  it,  I  know,  but  the  truth  is  I — I  want  to  talk  to 
some  one  pretty  badly,  and  I  need  some  financial  hdp, 
and — and  I  thought  of  you.  I — I'm  afraid  there's  a 
mess  here.  The  bank  examiners  landed  in  suddenly 
late  this  afternoon." 

"The — what?"  demanded  Jimmie  Dale  sharply. 

"The  bank  examiners — I — I  can't  talk  over  the  'phone. 
Only,  for  God's  sake,  come — will  you?  I'll  be  in  my 
rooms — you  know  where  they  are,  don't  you — on  the 
corner  over " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Jimmie  Dale  broke  in  tersely;  then, 
quietly:  "All  right,  Forrester,  I'll  come." 

"Thank  God!"  came  Forrester's  voice — and  discon- 
nected abruptly. 

Jimmie  Dale  replaced  the  receiver  on  the  hook,  stared 
at  the  instrument  again  in  a  perplexed  way;  then,  called 
the  garage  on  the  private  house  wire.  There  was  no 
answer.  He  walked  quickly  then  across  the  room  and 
pushed  an  electric  button. 

"Jason,"  he  said  a  moment  later,  as  the  old  butler 
appeared  on  the  threshold  in  answer  to  the  summons, 
"Benson  doesn't  answer  in  the  garage.  I  presume  he 
is  downstairs.  I  wish  you  would  ask  him  to  bring  the 
touring  car  around  at  once.  And  you  might  have  a 
light  overcoat  ready  for  me — Jason." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  old  man.  "Yes,  Master  Jim,  sir, 
at  once."  His  eyes  sought  Jimmie  Dale's,  and  dropped 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

—but  into  them  had  come,  not  the  questioning  of 
familiarity,  but  the  quick,  anxious  questioning  inspired 
by  the  affection  that  had  grown  up  between  them  from 
the  days  when,  as  the  old  man  was  so  fond  of  saying, 
he  had  dandled  his  Master  Jim  upon  his  knee.  "Yes, 
sir,  Master  Jim,  at  once,  sir,"  Jason  repeated — but  he 
still  hesitated  upon  the  threshold. 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  shook  his  head  whimsically — 
and  smiled. 

"No — not  to-night,  Jason,"  he  said  reassuringly.  "It's 
quite  all  right,  Jason — there's  no  letter  to-night." 

The  old  man's  face  cleared  instantly. 

"Yes,  sir;  quite  so,  sir.  Thank  you,  Master  Jim,"  he 
said.  "Shall  I  tell  Benson  that  he  is  to  drive  you, 
sir,  or " 

"No;  I'll  drive  myself,  Jason,"  decided  Jimmie  Dale. 

"Yes,  sir — very  good,  sir" — the  door  closed  on  Jason. 

Jimmie  Dale  turned  back  into  the  room,  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  its  length,  and  for  a  moment  the  reverie 
that  the  telephone  had  interrupted  was  again  dominant 
in  his  mind.  Jason  was  afraid.  Jason — even  though 
he  knew  so  little  of  the  truth — was  afraid.  Well,  what 
then  ?  He,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  not  blind  himself !  It  had 
come  almost  to  the  point  where  his  back  was  against 
the  wall  at  last ;  to  the  point  where,  unless  he  found  the 
Tocsin  before  many  more  days  went  by,  it  would  be,  as 
far  as  he  was  concerned — too  late! 

And  then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  suddenly — and 
his  forehead  knitted  into  perplexed  furrows.  For- 
rester— and  the  telephone  message !  What  did  it  mean  ? 
There  was  an  ugly  sound  to  it,  that  reference  to  the 
bank  examiners  and  the  need  of  financial  assistance. 
And  it  was  a  little  odd,  too,  that  Forrester  should  have 
telephoned  him,  Jimmie  Dale,  unless  it  were  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that  Forrester  knew  of  no  one  else  to 


ONE  CHANCE  IN  TEN  225 

whom  he  might  apply  for  perhaps  a  large  sum  of  ready 
money.  True,  he  knew  Forrester  quite  well — not  as  an 
intimate  friend — but  only  in  a  sort  of  casual,  off-hand 
kind  of  a  way,  as  it  were,  and  he  had  known  him 
for  a  good  many  years ;  but  their  acquaintanceship  would 
not  warrant  the  other's  action  unless  the  man  were  in 
desperate  straits.  Forrester  had  been  a  clerk  in  the 
city  bank  where  his,  Jimmie  Dale's,  father  had  trans- 
acted his  business,  and  it  was  there  he  had  first  met 
Forrester.  He  had  continued  to  meet  Forrester  there 
after  his  father  had  died;  and  then  Forrester  had  been 
offered  and  had  accepted  the  cashiership  of  a  small  local 
bank  out  near  Bayside  on  Long  Island.  He  had  run 
into  Forrester  there  again  once  or  twice  on  motor  trips — 
and  once,  held  up  by  an  accident  to  his  car,  he  had  dined 
with  Forrester,  and  had  spent  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
other's  rooms.  That  was  about  all. 

Jimmie  Dale's  frown  grew  deeper.  He  liked  For- 
rester. The  man  was  a  bachelor  and  of  about  his, 
Jimmie  Dale's,  own  age,  and  had  always  appeared  to  be 
a  decent,  clean-lived  fellow,  a  man  who  worked  hard, 
and  was  apparently  pushing  his  way,  if  not  meteorically, 
at  least  steadily  up  to  the  top,  a  man  who  was  respected 
and  well-thought  of  by  everybody — and  yet  just  what 
did  it  mean?  The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  uglie* 
it  seemed  to  become. 

He  stepped  suddenly  toward  the  telephone — and  a« 
abruptly  turned  away  again.  He  remembered  that  For-* 
rester  did  not  have  a  telephone  in  his  rooms,  for,  on 
the  night  of  the  break-down,  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had 
wanted  to  telephone,  and  had  been  obliged  to  go  outside 
to  do  so.  Forrester,  obviously  then,  had  done  likewise 
to-night.  Well,  he  should  have  insisted  on  a  fuller  ex- 
planation in  the  first  place  if  he  had  intended  to  make 


226       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

that  a  contingent  condition;  as  it  was,  it  was  too  late 
now,  and  he  had  promised  to  go. 

The  sound  of  a  motor  car  on  the  driveway  leading 
from  the  private  garage  in  the  rear  reached  him.  Ben- 
son was  bringing  out  the  car  now.  Jimmie  Dale,  as 
he  prepared  to  leave  the  room,  glanced  about  him  from 
force  of  habit,  and  his  eyes  held  for  an  instant  on  the 
portieres  behind  which,  in  the  little  alcove,  stood  the 
squat,  barrel-shaped  safe.  Was  there  anything  he  would 
need  to-night — that  leather  girdle,  for  instance,  with  its 
circle  of  pockets  containing  its  compact  little  burglar's 
kit?  He  shook  his  head  impatiently.  He  had  already 
told  Jason — if  in  other  words — that  there  was  no  "call 
to  arms"  to  the  Gray  Seal  to-night,  hadn't  he?  It  was 
habit  again  that  had  brought  the  thought,  that  was  all! 
For  the  rest,  in  the  last  few  days,  since  this  new  intui- 
tive danger  from  the  underworld  had  come  to  him,  an 
automatic  had  always  reposed  in  his  pocket  by  day  and 
under  his  pillow  by  night;  and  by  way  of  defence,  too» 
though  they  might  appear  to  be  curious  weapons  of 
defence  if  one  did  not  stop  to  consider  that  the  means 
of  making  a  hurried  exit  through  a  locked  door  might 
easily  make  the  difference  between  life  and  death,  his 
pockets  held  a  small,  but  very  carefully  selected  collec- 
tion of  little  steel  picklocks.  He  smiled  somewhat  amus- 
edly at  himself,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  room  and  de- 
scended the  stairs  to  the  hall  below.  The  contents  of  the 
safe  could  hardly  have  added  anything  that  would  be  of 
any  service  even  in  an  emergency !  His  mental  inventory 
of  his  pockets  had  been  incomplete — there  was  still  the 
thin,  metal  insignia  case,  and  the  black  silk  mask,  both 
of  which,  like  the  automatic,  were  never  now  out  of  his 
immediate  possession. 

He  slipped  into  his  coat  as  Jason  held  it  out  for  him, 
accepted  the  soft  felt  hat  which  Jason  extended,  and, 


ONE  CHANCE  IN  TEN  227 

with  a  nod  to  the  old  butler,  ran  down  the  steps,  dis- 
missed Benson,  who  stood  waiting,  and  entered  his  car. 

It  was  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  when  Jimmie 
Dale  drew  up  at  the  curb  on  the  main  street  of  the 
little  Long  Island  town  that  was  his  destination. 

"Pretty  good  run!"  said  Jimmie  Dale  to  himself,  as 
he  glanced  at  the  car's  clock  under  its  little  electric 
bulb.  "Halfpast  nine." 

He  descended  from  the  car,  and  nodded  as  he  sur- 
veyed his  surroundings.  He  had  stopped  neither  in 
front  of  the  bank,  nor  in  front  of  Forrester's  rooms — 
it  was  habit  again,  perhaps,  the  caution  prompted  by 
Forrester's  statement  relative  to  the  bank  examiners. 
If  there  was  trouble,  and  the  obvious  deduction  indi- 
cated that  there  was,  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  no  desire  to 
figure  in  it  in  a  public  way.  Again  he  nodded  his  head. 
Yes,  he  quite  had  his  bearings  now.  It  was  the  usual 
main  street  of  a  small  town — fairly  well  lighted,  stores 
and  shops  flanking  the  pavements  on  either  side,  and 
of  perhaps  a  distance  equivalent  to  some  seven  or  eight 
city  blocks  in  length.  Two  blocks  further  up,  on  the 
same  side  of  the  street  as  that  on  which  he  was  stand- 
ing, was  the  bank — not  a  very  pretentious  establishment, 
he  remembered;  its  staff  consisting  of  but  one  or  two 
apart  from  Forrester,  as  was  not  unusual  with  small 
local  banks,  though  this  in  no  way  indicated  that  the 
business  done  was  not  profitable,  or,  comparatively, 
large.  Jimmie  Dale  started  forward  along  the  street. 
On  the  corner  just  ahead  of  him  was  a  two-story  build- 
ing, the  second  floor  of  which  had  been  divided  into 
rooms  originally  designed  to  be  used  as  offices,  as,  indeed, 
most  of  them  were,  but  two  of  these  Forrester  had  fitted 
up  as  bachelor  quarters. 

Jimmie  Dale  turned  the  corner,  walked  down  the 
side  street  to  the  office  entrance  that  led  to  the  floor 


228       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

above,  opened  the  door,  and  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs. 
At  the  head  of  the  stairs  he  paused  to  get  his  bearings 
once  more.  Forrester's  rooms  were  here  directly  at 
She  head  of  the  stairs,  but  he  had  forgotten  for  the 
moment  whether  they  were  on  the  right  or  left  of  the 
corridor;  and  the  corridor  being  unlighted  now  and 
without  any  sign  of  life  left  him  still  more  undecided. 
It  seemed,  though,  if  his  recollection  served  him  cor- 
rectly, that  the  rooms  had  been  on  the  right.  He  moved 
in  that  direction,  found  the  door,  and  knocked;  but,  re- 
ceiving no  answer,  crossed  the  hall  again,  and  knocked 
on  the  door  on  the  left-hand  side.  There  was  no  an- 
swer here,  either.  He  frowned  a  little  impatiently,  and 
returned  once  more  to  the  right-hand  door.  Forrester 
probably  was  up  at  the  bank,  and  had  not  expected  him 
to  make  the  run  out  from  the  city  so  quickly.  He  tried 
the  door  tentatively,  found  it  unlocked,  opened  it  a  lit- 
tle way,  saw  that  the  room  within  was  lighted — and 
suddenly,  with  a  low,  startled  exclamation,  stepped  swift- 
ly forward  over  the  threshold,  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him. 

It  was  Forrester's  room,  this  one  here  at  the  right  of 
ihe  corridor — his  recollection  had  not  been  at  fault.  It 
was  Forrester's  room,  and  Forrester  himself  was  there 
— on  the  floor — dead. 

For  a  moment  Jimmie  Dale  stood  rigid  and  without 
movement,  save  that  as  his  eyes  swept  around  the  apart- 
ment his  face  grew  hard  and  set,  his  lips  drooping  in 
sharp,  grim  lines  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"My  God!"  Jimmie  Dale  whispered. 

There  was  a  faint,  almost  imperceptible  odour  in  the 
room,  like  the  smell  of  peach  blossom — he  noticed  it 
now  for  the  first  time,  as  his  eyes  fastened  on  a  small, 
empty  bottle  that  lay  on  the  floor  a  few  feet  away  from 
the  dead  man's  outstretched  arm.  Jimmie  Dale  stepped 


ONE  CHANCE  IN  TEN  229 

forward  abruptly  now,  and  knelt  down  beside  the  man 
for  a  hurried  examination.  It  was  unnecessary — he 
knew  that  even  before  he  performed  the  act.  Yes — 
the  man  was  dead.  He  reached  out  and  picked  up  the 
bottle.  The  odour  was  tell-tale  evidence  enough.  The 
bottle  had  contained  prussic,  or  hydrocyanic  acid,  prob- 
ably the  most  deadly  poison  in  existence,  and  the  swiftest 
in  its  action.  He  replaced  the  bottle  on  the  spot  where 
he  had  found  it,  and  stood  up. 

Again  Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  swept  his  surroundings. 
The  room  in  which  he  stood  was  a  sort  of  living  room 
or  den.  There  was  a  desk  over  by  the  far  wall,  a  couch 
near  the  door,  and  several  comfortable  lounging  chairs. 
Forrester  lay  with  his  head  against  the  sharp  edge  of 
one  of  the  legs  of  the  couch,  as  though  he  had  rolled  off 
and  struck  against  it. 

Opposite  the  desk,  across  the  room,  was  the  door  lead- 
ing into  the  second  room  of  the  little  apartment.  Jimmie 
Dale  moved  toward  this  now,  and  stepped  across  the 
threshold.  The  room  itself  was  unlighted,  but  there 
was  light  enough  from  the  connecting  doorway  to  en- 
able him  to  see  fairly  well.  It  was  Forrester's  bedroom, 
and  in  no  way  appeared  to  have  been  disturbed.  He 
remembered  it  quite  well.  There  was  a  door  here,  too, 
that  gave  on  the  hall.  He  circled  around  the  bed  and 
reached  the  door.  It  was  locked. 

Jimmie  Dale  returned  to  the  living  room — and  stood 
there  in  a  sort  of  grim  immobility,  looking  down  at  the 
form  on  the  floor.  He  was  not  callous.  Death,  as  often 
as  he  had  seen  it,  and  in  its  most  tragic  phases,  had  not 
made  him  callous,  and  he  had  liked  Forrester — but  sui- 
cide was  not  a  man's  way  out,  it  was  the  way  a  coward 
took,  and  if  it  brought  pity,  it  was  the  pity  that  was 
blunted  with  the  sterner,  almost  contemptuous  note  of 
disapproval.  What  had  happened  since  Forrester  had 


230       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

'phoned,  that  had  driven  the  man  to  this  extremity? 
When  Forrester  had  'phoned  he  had  appeared  to  be  agi- 
tated enough,  but,  at  least,  he  had  seemed  to  have  had 
hopes  that  the  appeal  he  was  then  making  might  see 
him  through,  and,  as  proof  of  that,  there  had  been  un- 
mistakable relief  in  the  man's  voice  when  he,  Jimmie 
Dale,  had  agreed  to  the  other's  request.  And  what  had 
been  the  meaning  of  that  "financial  help"?  Had,  for 
instance — for  it  was  pitifully  obvious  that  if  the  bank 
had  been  looted  an  innocent  man  would  not  commit  sui- 
cide on  that  account — a  greater  measure  of  the  depreda- 
tion been  uncovered  than  had  been  counted  on,  so  much 
indeed  that,  say,  the  financial  assistance  Forrester  had 
intended  to  ask  for  had  now  increased  to  such  propor- 
tions that  he  had  realised  the  futility  of  even  a  request; 
or,  again,  had  it  for  some  reason,  since  he  had  telephoned, 
now  become  impossible  to  restore  the  funds  even  if  they 
were  in  his  possession? 

A  sheet  of  note  paper  lying  on  the  desk  caught  Jimmie 
Dale's  eyes.  He  stepped  forward,  picked  it  up — and  his 
lips  drew  tight  together,  as  he  read  the  two  or  three 
miserable  lines  that  were  scrawled  upon  it : 

What's  left  is  in  the  middle  drawer  of  the  desk. 
There's  only  one  way  out  now — I  don't  see  any  other 
way.  I  thought  that  I  could  get — but  what  does  that 
matter!  God  help  me!  I'm  sorry. 

FLEMING  P.  FORRESTER. 

I'm  sorry !  It  was  a  pitiful  epitaph  for  a  man's  life ! 
I'm  sorry!  Jimmie  Dale's  face  softened  a  little — the 
man  was  dead  now.  "I'm  sorry.  .  .  .  Fleming  P.  For- 
rester"— he  had  seen  that  signature  on  bank  paper  a 
hundred  times  in  the  old  days ;  he  had  little  thought  ever 
to  see  it  on  a  document  such  as  this ! 


ONE  CHANCE  IN  TEN  S3lv 

He  stared  at  the  paper  for  a  long  time,  and  then,  from 
the  paper,  his  eyes  travelled  over  the  desk,  then  shifted 
again  to  Forrester — and  then,  for  the  second  time,  he 
knelt  beside  the  other  on  the  floor.  For  the  moment, 
what  was  referred  to  as  "being  all  that  was  left"  in 
the  middle  drawer  of  the  desk  could  wait.  There  was 
another  matter  now.  He  felt  hurriedly  through  For- 
rester's vest  and  coat  pockets — and  from  one  of  the 
pockets  drew  out  a  folded  piece  of  paper.  It  was  not 
what  he  was  looking  for,  but  it  was  all  that  rewarded 
his  search.  He  unfolded  the  paper.  It  was  dirty  and 
crumpled,  and  the  few  lines  written  upon  it  were  badly- 
penned  and  illiterate: 

The  ante's  gone  tip — get  me?  Six  thousand  bucks. 
You  come  across  with  that  to-morrow  morning  by  ten 
o'clock — or  I'll  spill  the  beans.  And  I  ain't  got  any  more 
paper  to  write  any  more  letters  on  either — savvy?  This 
is  the  last. 

There  was  no  signature.  Jimmie  Dale  read  it  again 
— and  abruptly  put  it  in  his  own  pocket.  Yes,  he  had 
liked  Forrester — well  enough  for  this  anyway!  The 
man  might  have  a  mother  perhaps — it  would  be  bad 
enough  in  any  case.  And  those  other  things,  the  empty 
bottle,  the  sheet  of  note  paper  with  its  scrawled  confes- 
sion— what  about  them  ?  He  returned  with  a  queer  sort 
of  hesitant  indecision  to  the  desk.  He  had  no  right  of 
course  to  touch  them  unless 

He  shook  his  head  sharply,  as  he  pulled  open  the  mid» 
die  drawer  of  the  desk. 

"Newspapers — publicity — rotten!"  he  muttered  sav- 
agely. "One  chance  in  ten,  and — ah !" 

From  the  back  of  the  drawer  where  it  had  been  tucked 
in  under  a  mass  of  papers,  he  had  extracted  a  little 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

bundle  of  documents  that  were  held  together  by  an 
clastic  band.  He  snapped  off  the  band,  and  ran  through 
the  papers  rapidly.  For  the  most  part  they  were  bonds 
and  stock  certificates  indorsed  by  their  owners,  and 
evidently  had  been  held  by  the  bank  as  collateral  for 
loans. 

And  then  suddenly  Jimmie  Dale  straightened  up,  tense 
and  alert.  He  had  no  desire,  very  far  from  any  desire 
to  be  caught  here,  or  to  figure  publicly  in  any  way  in  the 
case.  The  street  door  had  opened  and  closed  again. 
Footsteps,  those  of  three  men,  his  acute,  trained  hearing 
told  him,  sounded  on  the  stairs.  Again  there  came  that 
queer,  hesitant  indecision  as  he  stood  there,  while  his 
eyes  travelled  in  swift  succession  from  the  bank's  securi- 
ties in  his  hand  to  the  note  on  the  desk,  to  the  empty 
bottle  on  the  floor,  to  the  white,  upturned  face  of  the 
silent  form  huddled  against  the  couch. 

"One  chance  in  ten,"  muttered  Jimmie  Dale  through 
his  set  lips.  "One  chance  in  ten — and  I  guess  I'll  take 
it!" 

The  footsteps  came  nearer — they  were  almost  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs  now.  But  now  Jimmie  Dale  was  in 
action — swift  as  a  flash  and  silent  as  a  shadow  in  every 
movement.  The  bundle  of  securities  was  thrust  into 
his  pocket,  the  sheet  of  note  paper  followed,  and,  as  a 
knock  sounded  on  the  door,  he  stooped,  picked  up  the 
bottle  from  the  floor,  and  darted  into  the  adjoining 
room — and  in  another  instant  he  had  reached  the  locked 
door  and  was  working  at  it  silently  and  swiftly  with  a 
picklock. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  DEFAULTER 

AT  the  other  door  the  knocking  still  continued — and 
then  it  was  opened — and  there  came  a  chorus  of 
low,  horrified,  startled  cries,  and  the  quick  rush  of  feet 
into  the  room. 

The  picklock  went  back  into  Jimmie  Dale's  pocket, 
and  crouched,  now,  his  hand  on  the  knob,  turning  it 
gradually  without  a  sound,  drawing  the  door  ajar  inch 
by  inch,  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  doorway  connecting  with 
the  other  room.  He  could  see  the  three  men  bending 
over  Forrester.  Their  voices  came  in  confused,  broken, 
snatches : 

".  .  .  Dead!  .  .  .  Good  God!  .  .  .  Are  you  sure? 
.  .  .  Perhaps  he's  only  fainted  .  .  .  No,  he's  dead* 
poor  devil!  ..." 

And  then  one  of  the  men,  the  youngest  of  the  three, 
a  slight-built,  clean-shaven,  dark-eyed  man  of  perhaps 
twenty-eight  or  thirty,  rose  abruptly,  and  glanced  sharp- 
ly around  the  room. 

"Yes,  he's  dead!"  he  said  bitterly.  "Any  one  could 
tell  that !  But  he  wouldn't  be  dead,  and  this  would  never 
have  happened  if  you'd  done  what  I  wanted  you  to  do 
when  you  first  came  to  the  bank  this  afternoon.  I 
wanted  you  to  have  him  arrested  then,  didn't  I  ?" 

One  of  the  others — and  it  was  obvious  that  the  others 
were  the  two  bank  examiners — a  man  of  middle  age,  an- 
swered soberly. 


834       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"You're  upset,  Dryden,"  he  said.  "You  know  we 
couldn't  do  that " 

"On  a  teller's  word  against  the  cashier's — of  course 
not!"  the  young  man  broke  in  caustically.  "Well,  you 
see  now,  don't  you?" 

"We  couldn't  do  it  then  without  proof,"  amended  the 
bank  examiner  quietly. 

"Proof!"  Dryden  exclaimed.  "My  God— proof! 
Who  tipped  your  people  off  to  have  you  drop  in  there 
this  afternoon?  I  did,  didn't  I?  Do  you  think  I'd  do 
that  without  knowing  what  I  was  about!  Didn't  I  tell 
you  that  there  was  nothing  but  the  office  fixtures  left! 
Didn't  I?  There  were  only  the  two  of  us  on  the  staff, 
and  didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  had  discovered  that  the 
books  were  cooked  from  cover  to  cover?  Yes,  I  did{ 
And  you  had  to  get  your  pencils  out  and  start  in  on  a 
thumb-rule  examination,  as  though  nothing  were  the  mat- 
ter !  Well,  what  did  you  find  ?  The  securities  in  a  messt 
what  there  was  left  of  them — and  what  was  supposed 
to  be  twenty  thousand  dollars  that  came  out  from  the 
city  yesterday  nothing  but  a  package  of  blank  paper!" 

"You  didn't  know  that  yourself  until  half  an  hour  ago 
when  we  started  to  check  up  the  cash,"  returned  the 
other  a  little  sharply. 

"Well,  perhaps,  I  didn't,"  admitted  Dryden;  "but  I 
knew  about  the  books." 

"Besides  that,"  continued  the  bank  examiner,  "Mr. 
Forrester  was  in  town  this  afternoon  when  we  got  to 
the  bank  and  this  is  the  first  time  we  have  seen  him,  so 
we  could  not  very  well  have  done  anything  other  than 
we  have  done  in  any  case.  I  mention  this  because  you 
are  talking  wildly,  and  that  sort  of  talk,  if  it  gets  out, 
won't  do  any  of  us  any  good.  You  don't  want  to  blame 
Mr.  Marner  here  and  myself  for  Mr.  Forrester's  death, 
do  you?" 


*  THE  DEFAULTER  235 

"No — of  course,  I  don't !"  said  Dryden,  in  a  more  sub- 
dued voice.  "I  don't  mean  that  at  all.  I  guess  you're 
right — I'm  excited.  I — well" — he  motioned  jerkily  to- 
ward the  form  on  the  floor — "I'm  not  used  to  walking 
into  a  room  and  finding  that." 

It  was  Marner,  the  other  bank  examiner,  who  broke 
a  moment's  silence. 

"We  none  of  us  are,"  he  said,  and  brushed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.  "A  doctor  can't  do  any  good,  of 
course,  but  I  suppose  we  should  call  one  at  once,  and 
notify  the  police,  too.  I " 

Jimmie  Dale  had  slipped  through  the  door  and  out, 
into  the  hall.  A  moment  more  and  he  had  descended 
the  stairs  and  gained  the  street,  still  another  and  he 
had  stepped  nonchalantly  into  his  car.  The  car  started 
forward,  passed  out  of  the  lighted  zone  of  the  town's 
main  street — and  in  the  darkness,  headed  toward  New 
York,  Jimmie  Dale,  his  nonchalance  gone  now,  leaned 
forward  over  the  wheel,  and  the  big  sixty  horse-power 
car  leaped  into  its  stride  like  a  thoroughbred  at  the 
touch  of  the  spur,  and  tore  onward  at  dare-devil  speed 
through  the  night. 

His  lips  twisted  in  a  smile  that  held  little  of  humour. 
Back  there  in  that  room  they  would  call  a  doctor,  and 
they  would  call  the  police.  And  the  doctor  would  estab- 
lish the  fact  that  Forrester  had  died  from  the  effects  of 
a  dose  of  prussic  acid;  and  the  police  would  establish — 
what?  Prussic  acid  was  swift  in  its  effect.  If  For- 
rester had  died  from  that  cause,  how  had  he  taken  it 
himself,  and  out  of  what  had  he  taken  it?  What  the 
police  would  see  would  be  quite  a  different  thing  from 
what  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  seen  when  he  opened 
the  door  of  that  room!  Instead  of  the  evidence  of 
suicide,  there  was  now  every  evidence  of — murder.  The 
bank  examiners  on  entering  the  room,  startled  at  what 


236       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

they  saw,  obsessed  with  the  wreckage  of  the  bank,  might 
still  for  the  moment  have  jumped  to  the  conclusion,  natu- 
ral enough  under  the  circumstances,  of  suicide;  but  the 
police,  after  ten  minutes  of  unemotional  investigation, 
would  father  a  very  different  theory. 

Jimmie  Dale's  jaws  clamped,  as  his  eyes  narrowed 
on  the  flying  thread  of  gray  road  under  the  dancing 
headlights.  Well,  the  die  was  cast  now!  For  good  or 
bad,  his  response  to  Forrester's  telephone  appeal  had 
become  the  vital  factor  in  the  case.  For  good  or  bad! 
He  laughed  out  sharply  into  the  night.  He  would  see 
soon  enough — old  Kronische,  the  wizened,  crafty,  little 
chemist,  who  burrowed  like  a  fox  in  its  hole  deep  in 
the  heart  of  the  Bad  Lands,  would  answer  that  ques- 
tion. Old  Kronische  had  a  record  that  was  known  to 
police  and  underworld  alike — and  was  trusted  by  neither 
one,  and  feared  by  both.  But  he  was  clever — clever 
with  a  devilish  cleverness.  God  alone  knew  what  he 
was  up  to  in  the  long  hours  of  day  and  night  amongst 
his  retorts  and  test  tubes  in  his  abominable  smelling  lit- 
tle hole;  but  every  one  knew  that  from  old  Kronische 
anything  of  a  chemical  nature  could  be  obtained  if  the 
price,  not  a  small  one,  was  forthcoming,  and  if  old  Kro-« 
nische  was  satisfied  with  the  credentials  of  his  prosper 
tive  client. 

Yes — old  Kronische !  Old  Kronische  was  the  man,  the 
one  man;  there  was  no  possible  hesitancy  or  question 
there — the  question  was  how  to  reach  old  Kronische. 
Jimmie  Dale  shook  his  head  in  a  quick,  impatient  ges- 
ture, as  though  in  irritation  because  his  brain  would  not 
instantly  respond  to  his  demand  to  formulate  a  plan. 
It  seemed  simple  enough,  old  Kronische  was  perfectly 
accessible — but  it  was,  nevertheless,  far  from  simple.  He 
could  not  go  to  old  Kronische  as  Jimmie  Dale,  there 
was  an  ugly  turn  that  had  been  taken  in  that  room  of 


THE  DEFAULTER  237 

Forrester's  now.  If,  as  Jimmie  Dale,  he  had  had  reason 
to  keep  out  of  the  affair  before,  it  was  imperative  that 
he  should  do  so  now — or  he  might  find  himself  in  a 
very  awkward  situation,  so  awkward,  in  fact,  that  the 
consequences  might  lead  anywhere,  and  "anywhere"  to 
Jimmie  Dale,  to  the  Gray  Seal,  to  Smarlinghue,  might 
mean  ruin,  wreckage  and  disaster.  Nor,  much  less,  could 
he  risk  going  to  old  Kronische  as  Smarlinghue.  He  could 
not  trust  old  Kronische.  How,  if  old  Kronische  chose  to 
"talk,"  could  Smarlinghue  account  for  any  connection 
with  what  had  transpired  in  Forrester's  room?  How 
long  would  it  be,  even  if  Smarlinghue  were  no  more 
than  put  under  surveillance,  before  the  discovery  would 
be  made  that  Smarlinghue  was  but  a  role  that  covered — 
Jimmie  Dale! 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale's  strained,  set  face  relaxed 
a  little.  His  brain  had  repented  of  its  stubbornness,  it 
seemed,  and  was  at  work  again.  There  was  a  way,  a 
very  sure  way  as  far  as  old  Kronische  being  "talkative" 
was  concerned,  but  a  very  dangerous  way  from  every 
other  point  of  view.  Suppose  he  went  to  old  Kronische 
— as  Larry  the  Bat ! 

The  car  tore  on  through  the  night;  towns  and  vil- 
lages flashed  by;  the  long,  deserted  stretches  of  road 
began  to  give  way  to  the  city's  outskirts — and  Jimmie 
Dale  began  to  drive  more  cautiously.  Larry  the  Bat! 
Yes,  it  was  perfectly  feasible,  as  far  as  feasibility  went. 
The  clothes  that  he  had  duplicated  at  such  infinite  trouble 
were  still  hidden  there  in  the  Sanctuary.  But  to  be 
caught  as  Larry  the  Bat  meant — the  end.  That  was 
the  one  thing  the  underworld  knew,  the  one  thing 
the  police  knew — that  Larry  the  Bat  was,  or  had 
been,  the  Gray  Seal.  Still,  he  had  done  it  once  before, 
and  it  could  be  done  again.  He  could  reach  old  Kro- 
nische's  without  much  fear  of  discovery  after  all,  hf 


238       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

•would  take  good  care  to  secure  the  few  minutes  neces- 
sary to  make  a  "getaway"  from  the  old  chemist's,  and 
•afterwards  old  Kronische  could  talk  as  much  as  he  liked 
about — Larry  the  Bat!  Yes,  that  was  the  way!  Old 
Kronische — and  Larry  the  Bat.  He,  Jimmie  Dale,  would 
drive,  say,  to  Marlianne's  restaurant,  and  telephone 
Jason  to  send  Benson  for  the  car — Marlianne's,  besides 
being  a  very  natural  stopping  place,  possessed  the  added 
advantage  of  being  quite  close  to  the  Sanctuary. 

His  decision  made,  Jimmie  Dale  gave  his  undivided 
attention  to  his  car,  and  ten  minutes  later,  stopping  in 
the  shabby  street  that  harboured  Marlianne's,  he  en- 
tered the  restaurant,  threaded  his  way  through  the  small 
crowded  rooms — for  Marlianne's,  despite  its  spotted 
linen,  was  crowded  at  all  hours — to  a  sort  of  hallway 
at  the  rear  of  the  place,  and  entered  the  telephone  booth. 

He  called  his  residence,  and,  as  he  waited  for  the 
connection,  glanced  at  his  watch.  He  smiled  grimly.  He 
could  congratulate  himself  for  the  second  time  that  night 
on  having  made  a  record  run.  It  was  not  yet  quite  half- 
past  ten,  and  he  must  have  been  at  least  a  good  twenty 
minutes  in  Forrester's  rooms.  He  rattled  the  hook  im- 
patiently. They  were  a  long  time  in  getting  the  con- 
nection! Halfpast  ten!  He  could  be  at  the  Sanctuary 
in  another  few  minutes,  ten  minutes  at  the  outside ;  then, 
say,  another  twenty  to  rehabilitate  Larry  the  Bat,  and 
by  eleven  he 

"Yes — hello!" — he  was  speaking  quickly  into  the 
'phone,  as  Jason's  voice  reached  him.  "Jason,  I  am  down 
here  at  Marlianne's.  Tell  Benson  to  come  for  the  car, 
and "  He  stopped  abruptly.  Jason  was  talking  ex- 
citedly, almost  incoherently  at  the  other  end. 

"Master  Jim,  sir !  Is  that  you,  sir,  Master  Jim !  It- 
it  came,  sir,  not  ten  minutes  after  you  left  to-night, 
and " 


THE  DEFAULTER  239 

"Jason,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  sharply,  "what's  the  mat- 
ter with  you?  What  are  you  talking  about?  What 
came  ?" 

"Why — why,  sir — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I've  been 
a  bit  uneasy  ever  since,  sir.  It's — it's  one  of  those  let- 
ters, Master  Jim,  sir." 

A  sudden  whiteness  came  into  Jimmie  Dale's  face,  as 
he  stared  into  the  mouthpiece  of  the  telephone.  A  "call 
to  arms"  from  the  Tocsin — now — to-night!  What  was 
he  to  do!  It  was  not  a  trivial  thing  which  that  letter 
would  contain — it  never  had  been,  and  it  never  would 
be,  and  no  matter  under  what  circumstances  it  found 
him,  he 

Jason's  voice  faltered  over  the  wire: 

"Are  you  there,  sir,  Master  Jim?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  quietly.  "Bring  the  letter 
with  you,  Jason,  and  come  down  with  Benson.  I  will 
wait  for  you  here — in  the  car  outside  Marlianne's.  And 
hurry,  Jason — take  a  taxi  down." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jason,  his  voice  trembling  a  little.  "At 
once,  Master  Jim." 

Jimmie  Dale  hung  up  the  receiver,  returned  to  the 
street,  and  seated  himself  in  his  car.  How  long  would 
it  take  them  to  get  here?  Half  an  hour?  Well  then, 
for  half  an  hour  his  hands  were  tied,  and  he  could  do 
nothing  but  wait.  He  glanced  around  him.  It  was 
curious !  It  was  here  in  this  very  place  that  he  had  once 
found  a  letter  from  her  in  his  car ;  it  was  even  here  that, 
without  knowing  it  at  the  moment,  he  had  really  seen  her 
for  the  first  time.  And  now — what  did  it  hold,  this  let- 
ter, this  "call  to  arms"  that  he  sat  here  waiting  for, 
while  out  there  in  that  little  town  a  man  lay  dead  on  the 
floor  of  his  room,  and  around  whom,  where  there  had 
once  been  the  evidence  of  a  coward's  guilt,  crowned  with 
the  sorriest  epitaph  that  ever  man  had  written,  there 


240       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

was  now  the  evidence  of  a  still  blacker  crime — the  crime 
of  murder. 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  smoked  it  through.  Could 
it  be  that — in  her  letter!  Intuition  again?  Well,  why 
not — if  old  Kronische  should  answer  the  question  as  the 
chances  were  one  in  ten  that  old  Kronische  might  an- 
swer it !  Yes — why  not !  It  would  not  be  strange,  in- 
tuition— because  somehow  the  feeling  that  it  was  so 
grew  stronger  with  each  moment  that  passed — well,  once 
before  to-night  he  had  said  that  intuition  had  never 
failed  him  yet ! 

The  minutes  dragged  by  interminably.  He  smoked 
another  cigarette,  and  after  that  another.  The  clock 
under  the  hood  showed  five  minutes  past  eleven;  the 
minute  hand  crept  around  to  eight,  nine,  ten  minutes 
past  the  hour — and  then  a  taxi  swerved  on  little  better 
than  two  wheels  around  the  corner — and  Jimmie  Dale, 
springing  from  his  seat,  jumped  to  the  pavement  as  the 
taxi  drew  up  at  the  curb. 

Jason,  palpably  agitated,  and  followed  by  Benson, 
descended  from  the  taxi.  Jimmie  Dale  dismissed  the 
cab,  and  motioned  Benson  to  the  car. 

"Well,  Jason?"  he  said  quickly. 

"It's  here,  sir,  Master  Jim" — the  old  butler  fumbled 
in  an  inner  pocket,  and  produced  an  envelope — "I " 

"Thank  you!  That's  all— Jason."  Jimmie  Dale's 
quick  smile  robbed  his  curt  dismissal  of  any  sting.  "Ben- 
son, of  course,  will  drive  you  home." 

"Yes,  sir."  The  old  man  went  slowly  to  the  car,  and 
climbed  in  beside  the  chauffeur.  "Good-night,  sir!" 
Jason  ventured  wistfully.  "Good-night,  Master  Jim!" 

"Good-night,  Jason — good-night,  Benson!"  Jimmie 
Dale  answered — and,  turning,  started  briskly  along  the 
street.  Jason's  "good-night"  had  been  eloquent  of  the  old 
man's  anxiety.  He  would  have  liked  to  reassure  Jason 


THE  DEFAULTER 

— but  he  had  neither  the  time,  nor,  for  that  matter,  the 
ability  to  do  so.  The  old  man  would  be  reassured  when 
he  saw  his  Master  Jim  enter  the  house  again — and  not 
until  then! 

Jimmie  Dale  glanced  about  him  up  and  down  the  street. 
The  car  had  gone,  and  he  was  well  away  from  the  en- 
trance to  Marlianne's.  The  street  itself  was  practically 
deserted.  He  nodded  quickly,  and  stepped  forward  to- 
ward a  street  lamp  that  was  close  at  hand.  As  well 
here  as  anywhere!  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in. 
the  fact  that  a  man  should  stand  under  a  street  lamp 
and  read  a  letter — even  if  he  were  observed. 

He  tore  the  envelope  open,  and,  standing  there,  leaned 
in  apparent  nonchalance  against  the  post — but  into  the 
dark  eyes  had  leaped  a  sudden  flash.  One  word  seemed 
to  stand  out  from  all  the  rest  on  the  written  page  he 
held  in  his  hand — "Forrester."  He  laughed  a  little  in 
a  low,  grim  way.  His  intuition  had  been  right  again 
then,  and  that  meant — what?  If  she,  the  Tocsin,  knew, 
then — his  mind  was  working  subconsciously,  leaping  from 
premise  to  a  dimly  seen,  half  formed  conclusion,  while 
his  eyes  travelled  rapidly  over  the  written  lines. 

"Dear  Philanthropic  Crook: — You  will  have  to  hurry, 
Jimmie.  ...  I  do  not  know  what  may  happen  .... 
Forrester  .  .  .  bank  cashier  at" — yes,  he  knew  all  that ! 
But  this — what  was  this?  "Money  lender.  .  .  .  Abe 
Suviney  .  .  .  bled  him  .  .  .  early  days  in  city  bank 
.  .  .  fellow  clerk's  defalcation.  .  .  .  Forrester  borrowed 
the  money  to  cover  it  and  save  the  other.  .  .  .  Suviney 
used  it  as  a  club  for  blackmail.  .  .  .  Forrester  was 
trapped  .  .  .  could  not  extricate  himself  without  in- 
culpating his  friend  .  .  .  friend  die d  .  .  .  Suviney  put 
on  the  screws  ...  to  say  anything  then  was  to  have 
it  look  like  a  dishonourable  method  of  covering  a  theft 
of  his  own  .  .  .  would  ruin  his  career  .  .  .  original 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

amount  four  thousand  .  .  .  Forrester  has  been  paying 
blackmail  in  the  shape  of  exorbitant  interest  ever  since 
.  .  .  Suviney  finally  demanded  six  thousand  to-day  to 
be  paid  at  once  .  .  .  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
bank  robbery,  but  would  look  black  .  .  .  added  evi- 
dence. .  .  ."  He  read  on,  his  mind  seeming  to  absorb 
the  contents  of  the  letter  faster  than  his  eyes  could  de 
cipher  the  words.  "English  Dick  .  .  .  confession  forged 
.  .  .  organisation  widespread  .  .  .  enormously  power~ 
ful  .  .  .  leadership  a  mystery  .  .  .  rendezvous  that 
English  Dick  visits  is  at  Marlopp's  .  .  .  Reddy  Mull's 
room  .  .  .  rear  room  .  .  .  leaves  cash  and  securities 
there  under  loose  board,  right-hand  corner  from  door 
.  .  .  twenty  thousand  cash  to-night.  ..." 

Jimmie  Dale  was  walking  on  down  the  street,  his  fin- 
gers picking  and  tearing  the  sheets  of  paper  in  his  hand 
into  minute  fragments.  There  was  a  sort  of  cold,  un- 
emotional, unnatural  calm  upon  him.  It  was  all  here, 
all,  the  Tocsin  had — no,  not  all!  She  had  not  known 
of  the  last  act  in  the  brutal  drama,  for  her  letter  had 
been  written  prior  to  that.  She  had  not  known  that 
there  was — murder.  But  apart  from  that,  to  the  last  de- 
tail, in  all  its  hideous,  relentless  craft,  the  whole  plot  was 
clear.  There  was  no  need  to  go  to  old  Kronische  now, 
no  need  to  assume  the  role  of  Larry  the  Bat.  The  ques- 
tion was  answered — the  confession  was  a  forgery — the 
evidence,  not  of  suicide,  but  of  murder,  that  he,  Jimmie 
Dale,  had  left  behind  him  in  that  room,  was  the  evidence 
of  fact. 

He  walked  on — rapidly  now — heading  over  in  the  di« 
rection  of  the  Bowery.  There  had  been  neither  ink  nor 
pen  upon  the  desk  where  he  had  found  the  confession, 
nor  had  there  been  a  fountain  pen  in  Forrester's  pocket 
when  he  had  searched  the  other!  He  laughed  out  ;< 
Kttle  harshly.  A  strange  oversight  on  some  one's  pert 


THE  DEFAULTER 

if  there  had  been  foul  play — so  strange  that  he  had 
hesitated  to  believe  it  possible!  And  so  it  had  been — 
one  chance  in  ten,  for  there  was  nothing  to  have  pre- 
vented Forrester  from  having  written  the  note  else- 
where than  in  his  own  room.  But  if  Forrester  had 
written  it,  he  must  of  necessity  have  written  it  very  re- 
cently, certainly  after  he  had  telephoned,  that  is,  within 
an  hour;  whereas,  if  it  had  been  written  by  some  one 
else  and  brought  there,  if  it  was  forged,  if  it  was  murder 
and  not  suicide,  the  note  must  have  taken  long  and 
painstaking  effort  to  prepare  beforehand.  That  was 
the  question  that  old  Kronische,  the  chemist,  was  to 
have  answered,  a  question  that  was  very  much  in  the 
cunning  old  fox's  line — did  the  condition  of  the  ink  show 
that  the  note  had  been  written  within  the  hour?  It  was 
a  very  simple  question  for  old  Kronische,  the  man  would 
have  answered  it  instantly,  for  even  to  him,  Jimmie  Dale, 
the  writing  had  not  looked  fresh.  But  there  was  no 
need  of  old  Kronische  now !  And  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  un- 
derstood now,  too,  the  reason  for  Forrester's  appeal  over 
the  telephone.  In  some  way  Forrester,  without  going  to 
the  bank  itself,  had  learned  that  the  bank  examiners  had 
suddenly  put  in  an  appearance,  had  either  discovered 
or  deduced  that  something  was  wrong,  and  had  realised 
that  should  Suviney's  demand  for  money,  or  Suviney's 
blackmailing  story  become  known,  it  would  appear  as 
damning  evidence  of  a  past  record  looming  up  to  point 
suspicion  toward  him  now.  That  was  what  he  had  meant, 
by  saying  he  needed  financial  help. 

Jimmie  Dale  slipped  suddenly  into  a  lane,  edged  along 
the  wall  of  the  tenement  that  made  the  corner,  pushed 
aside  a  loose  board  in  the  fence,  passed  into  the  little 
courtyard  beyond,  and,  still  hugging  the  shadows  of  the 
building,  opened  a  narrow  French  window,  and  stepped 
through  into  a  room.  He  was  in  the  Sanctuary. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ALIAS   ENGLISH   DICK 

BUT  Jimmie  Dale  lost  no  time  in  the  Sanctuary.  In 
the  darkness  he  crossed  the  room,  and  from  behind 
the  movable  section  of  the  baseboard  possessed  himself 
of  a  pocket  flashlight,  and  a  small,  but  extremely  serv- 
iceable, steel  jimmy — and  in  a  moment  more  was  bacU 
in  the  lane,  and  from  the  lane  again  was  heading  stil; 
deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  East  Side. 

English  Dick !  A  twisted  smile  crossed  his  lips.  Well 
as  he  knew  the  underworld  and  its  sordid  citizenship, 
he  might  be  forgiven  for  not  knowing  English  Dick. 
The  man's  reputation  had  reached  into  every  corner  of 
the  Bad  Lands,  it  was  true;  but  it  had  not  been  known 
that  the  man  himself  was  on  this  side  of  the  water. 
And  that  the  secret  had  been  kept  spoke  with  grim  and 
deadly  significance  for  the  power  and  cunning  of  the 
master  brain  to  which  the  Tocsin  had  referred,  for  Eng- 
lish Dick  was  known  as  the  most  famous  forger  itf 
Europe,  the  best  in  his  line,  and  as  such,  from  afar- 
was  worshipped  as  a  demi-god  by  the  underworld  of 
New  York. 

Block  after  block  of  dark,  ill-lighted  streets  Jimmie 
Dale  traversed,  until,  perhaps  fifteen  minutes  after  he 
had  left  the  Sanctuary,  he  swerved  suddenly  for  the 
second  time  ihat  night  into  a  lane.  He  might  not  have 
known  English  Dick,  but  he  knew  Reddy  Mull,  and  he 
knew  Marloff's!  Reddy  Mull  was  a  gangster,  a  gun» 


ALIAS  ENGLISH  DICK  245 

man  pure  and  simple,  whose  services  were  at  the  call 
of  the  highest  bidder;  and  Marlopp's  was  a  pool  and 
billiard  hall — to  the  uninitiated.  Marlopp's,  however,  if 
one  had  ears  well  trained  enough  to  hear,  resounded  to 
the  click  of  ivory  that  was  not  the  click  of  pool  and 
billiard  balls!  Upstairs,  if  one  could  get  upstairs,  a 
gambling  hell  supplanted  the  billiard  hall  below.  It  was 
an  unsavoury  place,  the  resort  of  crooks,  some  of  whom 
lived  there — amongst  them,  Reddy  Mull. 

Jimmie  Dale,  close  against  the  fence,  and  halfway 
down  the  lane  now,  paused  and  looked  about  him,  strain- 
ing his  eyes  through  the  blackness — then  with  a  lithe 
spring  he  caught  the  top  of  the  fence,  swung  himself 
over,  and  dropped  to  the  ground  on  the  other  side.  The 
rear  of  a  row  of  low  buildings  now  loomed  up  before 
him  across  a  narrow  yard.  Window  lights  showed  here 
and  there  from  the  houses  on  either  side ;  and  from  the 
upper  windows  of  the  house  directly  in  front  of  him 
faint  threads  of  light  filtered  out  into  the  darkness 
through  the  cracks  of  closed  shutters,  but  the  lower  part 
of  the  house  was  in  blackness. 

He  crept  forward  silently  across  the  yard.  There  was 
a  back  entrance,  but  it  led  to  the  basement — Jimmie 
Dale's  immediate  attention  was  directed  to  the  rear  win- 
dow, the  window  of  one  Reddy  Mull's  room.  And  here, 
crouched  beneath  it,  Jimmie  Dale  listened.  From  the 
front  of  the  establishment  came  muffled  sounds  from  the 
pool  and  billiard  hall;  there  was  nothing  else. 

The  window  was  above  the  level  of  his  head,  but  still 
easily  within  reach.  He  tested  it,  found  it  locked — and 
the  steel  jimmy  crept  in  under  the  sash.  A  moment 
passed,  there  was  a  faint,  almost  indistinguishable  creak ; 
and  then  Jimmie  Dale,  drawing  himself  up  with  the 
agility  of  a  cat,  had  slipped  through,  and  was  standing, 
listening  again,  inside  the  room. 


846       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

The  sounds  from  the  pool  room  were  louder,  more  dis- 
tinct now,  even  rising  once  into  a  shout  of  boisterous* 
hilarity ;  but  there  was  no  other  sound.  The  round,  white 
ray  of  Jimmie  Dale's  flashlight  circled  the  room  sud- 
denly, inquisitively — and  went  out.  It  was  a  barefr 
squalid  place,  dirty,  filthy,  disreputable.  There  was  a 
bed,  unmade,  a  table,  a  few  chairs,  a  greasy,  threadbare 
carpet  on  the  floor — nothing  else,  save  that  his  eyes  had 
noted  that  the  electric-light  switch  was  on  the  wall  be- 
side  the  jamb  of  the  door. 

The  flashlight  winked  again — and  again  went  out. 
Jimmie  Dale  slipped  his  mask  over  his  face,  and  moved 
forward  toward  the  wall. 

"Under  loose  board,  right-hand  corner  from  door," 
murmured  Jimmie  Dale.  He  was  kneeling  on  the  floor 
now.  "Yes,  here  it  was!"  His  flashlight  was  boring 
down  into  a  little  excavation  beneath  the  piece  »of  floor- 
ing he  had  removed.  He  stared  into  this  for  a  mo- 
ment, his  lips  twitching  grimly;  then,  with  a  whimsical 
shrug  of  his  shoulders,  he  replaced  the  board,  and  stood 
up.  He  had  found  the  hiding  place  without  any  trouble 
— but  he  had  found  it  empty.  "I  guess,"  said  Jimmie 
Dale,  with  a  mirthless  smile,  "that  there's  a  good  deal 
of  the  bank's  property  at  large — temporarily !" 

There  was  a  chair  by  the  wall  close  to  the  door,  he 
had  noticed.  He  moved  over,  and  sat  down — but,  in- 
stead of  his  flashlight,  his  automatic  was  in  his  hand 
now.  There  was  the  chance,  of  course,  that  English 
Dick  had  already  been  here  with  that  twenty  thousand 
from  the  bank,  and  in  that  case,  as  witness  the  empty 
hiding  place,  Reddy  Mull  had  already  passed  it  on ;  but 
it  was  much  more  likely  that  neither  one  of  the  two  had 
yet  arrived.  Which  one  would  come  first  then — English 
Dick,  or  Reddy  Mull?  If  it  were  Reddy  Mull  it  would 
be  unfortunate— for  Reddy  Mull.  His,  Jimmie  Dale'jr, 


ALIAS  ENGLISH  DICK  247 

immediate  business  was  with  English  Dick,  and  he  was 
quite  content  to  leave  Reddy  Mull  to  the  later  ministra- 
tions of  the  police. 

Jimmie  Dale's  fingers  tested  the  mechanism  of  his  auto- 
matic in  the  darkness.  Whose  was  the  master  brain 
behind  all  this?  This  crime  to-night  bore  glaring  evi- 
dence to  the  work  of  some  far-flung,  intricate  and  pow- 
erful organisation — the  Tocsin  was  indubitably  right  in 
that.  Was  this  the  first  concrete  expression  he  had  had 
of  that  undercurrent  he  had  sensed  of  late  as  permeating 
the  underworld,  that  he  had  sensed  was  reaching  out  as 
one  of  its  objects  for  him,  and  that 

He  came  suddenly  without  a  sound  to  his  feet,  and 
pressed  back  close  against  the  wall,  his  body  rigid  and 
thrown  forward  like  one  poised  to  spring.  There  was 
a  footstep  outside  the  door,  the  rasp  of  a  key  in  the  lock, 
then  a  faint,  murky  path  of  light  as  the  door  opened, 
and  a  man  stepped  forward  over  the  threshold.  The 
key  was  inserted  with  another  rasping  sound  in  the  inner 
side  of  the  lock,  the  door  closed,  the  key  turned  and 
was  withdrawn,  thrust  evidently  into  its  possessor's 
pocket — and  then  Jimmie  Dale,  silently,  in  a  lightning 
flash,  was  upon  the  other,  his  hand  at  the  man's  throat, 
the  cold,  round  muzzle  of  his  automatic  against  the 
other's  face.  There  was  a  choked  cry,  the  thud  as  of 
something  dropping  on  the  floor — and  then  Jimmie  Dale 
spoke. 

"Put  your  hands  up  over  your  head!"  he  breathed 
grimly — and,  as  the  other  obeyed,  his  own  hand  fell 
,*way  from  the  man's  throat,  and  in  a  quick,  deft  sweep 
over  the  other's  clothing  located  the  bulge  of  a  revolver, 
and  whipped  it  from  the  man's  pocket.  He  pushed  the 
man  with  his  automatic's  muzzle  back  against  the  wall, 
closer  to  the  electric-light  switch.  Was  it  Reddy  Mull — 
or  English  Dick?  And  then  Jimmie  Dale  laughed  lowf 


248       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

unpleasantly,  as  he  switched  on  the  light.  He  was  star- 
ing into  a  face  that  was  white  and  colourless — the  face 
of  a  man  with  a  heavy  black  moustache,  and  whose  slouch 
hat  was  jammed  far  down  over  his  eyes.  The  process 
of  elimination  made  it  very  simple — it  was  English  Dick. 

The  man  blinked,  and  wet  his  lips  with  his  tongue, 
and  at  sight  of  Jimmie  Dale's  mask,  perhaps  because  it 
suggested  a  community  of  interest,  tried  to  force  a 
smirk. 

"What's — what's  the  game?"  he  stammered. 

"This — to  begin  with!"  said  Jimmie  Dale  grimly— 
and,  stooping,  picked  up  from  the  floor  a  small  black 
satchel,  the  object  that  English  Dick  had  dropped  on 
entering  the  room.  "Go  over  to  that  table!"  ordered 
Jimmie  Dale  curtly. 

The  man  obeyed. 

"Sit  down !"  Jimmie  Dale  was  clipping  off  his  words 
in  cold  menace. 

Again  the  man  obeyed. 

Jimmie  Dale,  his  back  to  the  door  as  he  faced  the 
other  across  the  table,  snapped  open  the  bag.  It  was 
full  to  the  top  with  banknotes  and  securities.  Under  his 
mask  his  lips  curled  in  a  hard,  forbidding  smile.  He 
took  from  his  pocket  the  package  of  the  bank's  securi- 
ties he  had  found  in  the  drawer  of  Forrester's  desk,  and 
laid  it  in  silence  on  the  table  beside  the  satchel;  beside 
this  again,  still  in  silence,  he  placed  the  bottle  that  had 
contained  the  hydrocyanic  acid,  and — after  an  instant's 
pause — spread  out  the  sheet  of  note  paper  bearing  For- 
rester's forged  signature. 

The  man's  face,  white  before,  had  gone  a  livid  gray. 

"W-what  do  you  want  ?"  he  whispered. 

"I  want  you  to  write  another  confession."  There  wa? 
a  deadly  monotony  in  Jimmie  Dale's  voice,  as  he  tapped 


ALIAS  ENGLISH  DICK  249 

the  paper  with  the  muzzle  of  his  automatic.  "This  one 
is  out  of  date." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  faltered  English  Dick. 
"So  help  me,  honest  to  God,  I  don't!" 

"Don't  you!"  There  was  a  curious  drawl  in  Jimmie 
Dale's  voice — and  then  in  a  flash  his  free  hand  swept 
across  the  table,  jerked  away  the  other's  moustache,  and 
pushed  the  slouch  hat  up  from  the  man's  eyes.  "I  mean 
that  the  game  is  up — Dryden." 

There  was  a  low  cry ;  and  the  man,  with  working  lips, 
shrank  back  in  his  chair. 

"You  cur!"  The  words  were  coming  fast  and  hot 
from  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  now.  "English  Dick,  alias 
Dryden,  the  bank  teller!  So,  you  don't  know  what  I 
mean!  Listen,  then,  and  I'll  tell  you!  Six  months  ago 
you  got  a  position  in  the  bank.  Since  then  you've  forged 
names  right  and  left  on  securities,  falsified  the  books, 
and  stolen  cash  and  securities.  Day  by  day,  working 
in  with  your  gang,  you've  brought  the  loot  here,  com- 
ing in  disguise  of  course,  as  you've  come  to-night,  for 
it  wouldn't  do  for  'Dryden'  to  be  seen  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood !  And  you  turned  the  loot  over  to  Reddy 
Mull — by  leaving  it,  if  he  didn't  happen  to  be  around, 
under  that  loose  board  there  in  the  corner." 

"My  God!"  The  man's  face  was  ghastly.  "Who— 
who  are  you?" 

"To-day,"  went  on  Jimmie  Dale,  as  though  he  had  not 
heard  the  other,  "you  came  to  the  climax  of  the  plan  you 
had  been  working  on  for  those  six  months — the  bank 
was  wrecked — and  what  little  there  was  left  you  took" — 
he  jerked  his  hand  toward  the  open  satchel — "replacing 
it  at  the  last  moment  with  previously  prepared  dummy 
packages.  And  you  took  it,  you  cur" — Jimmie  Dale's 
voice  choked  suddenly — "not  only  at  the  expense  of  a 
man's  life,  but  of  his  good  name  and  reputation.  You 


250       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

might  have  known,  I  do  not  know  whether  you  did 
or  not,  that  Forrester  had  some  private  trouble  with  a 
money  lender,  but  I  do  not  imagine  that  had  anything 
to  do  with  your  having  selected  Forrester's  bank.  Your 
object  was  to  exploit  a  small  bank  where,  with  only  one 
man  from  whom  to  hide  your  work,  you  could  loot  it 
thoroughly;  and  a  forged  confession  clever  enough  to 
deceive  any  one  in  its  handwriting  and  signature,  and 
the  man  found  dead  from  a  dose  of  pnissic  acid,  the 
empty  bottle  on  the  floor  beside  him,  needed  no  other 
evidence  to  stamp  him  as  the  guilty  man." 

English  Dick  was  struggling  to  his  feet ;  his  eyes,  in  a 
sort  of  horrible  fascination,  on  Jimmie  Dale. 

Jimmie  Dale  pushed  him  savagely  back  into  his  seat. 

"Yes — you  cur!"  he  said  again.  "You  got  your  first 
fright  when  you  found  those  evidences  of  suicide  were 
gone — you  even  lost  your  nerve  a  little  in  your  bluff 
with  the  bank  examiners — and  you  hurried  here  the 
moment  you  could  get  away  from  the  preliminary  police 
investigation  that  followed — I  was  even  afraid  you  might 
get  here  a  little  sooner  than  you  did.  Shall  I  give  you 
the  details  of  this  afternoon  and  to-night?  The  plant 
was  ready.  You  had  sent  for  the  bank  examiners.  You 
had  already  prepared  the  forged  confession,  and  had 
a  small  package  of  securities  ready.  Forrester  had  gone 
to  New  York.  You  turned  over  the  confession  and  the 
package  of  securities  to  your  accomplice,  or  accomplices, 
to  be  left  in  Forrester's  room.  I  imagine  that  you  tele- 
phoned, or  sent  a  message,  to  New  York  to  Forrester 
telling  him  that  the  bank  examiners  were  in  the  bank, 
that  there  was  something  the  matter,  and  for  him  to 
go  to  his  rooms,  and,  say,  meet  you  there  before  going 
to  the  bank.  Your  accomplice,  for  you  established  an 
alibi  by  remaining  with  the  bank  examiners,  stole  in 
after  him,  or  even  in  the  dark  hallway  stunned  him 


ALIAS  ENGLISH  DICK  251 

with  a  black-jack,  then  forced  the  poison  down  his 
throat,  laid  him  on  the  floor,  placed  the  empty  bottle 
beside  him,  and  left  the  confession  on  the  desk.  The 
plan  was  very  cunningly  worked  out.  The  bruise  on 
Forrester's  head  was  most  obviously  accounted  for — • 
his  head  had  struck,  of  course,  against  the  leg  of  the 
couch — he  was  found  lying  in  that  position!  It  is 
strange,  though,  isn't  it,  how  sometimes  the  most  cun- 
ning of  plans  go  astray  in  the  simplest  and  yet  the  most 
perverse  of  ways  ?  Who,  under  the  circumstances,  would 
have  thought  of  it!  Your  accomplice  had  simply  to 
place  a  document  already  prepared  upon  the  desk.  Even 
you  did  not  think  to  warn  him  yourself.  It  did  not 
enter  his  head  to  see  if  there  were  pen  and  ink  there 
with  which  it  might  have  been  written,  or,  failing  that, 
a  fountain  pen  in  Forrester's  pocket — and  there  was 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  That's  all — except  the 
name  of  the  man  who  killed  Forrester."  Jimmie  Dale 
leaned  forward  sharply.  "Who  was  it?" 

English  Dick  wet  his  lips  again. 

"I — they— they'd  kill  me  like — like  a  dog  if  I  told," 
he  mumbled. 

"They?"    The  monosyllable  came  curt  and  hard. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  English  Dick.  "That's  God's 
truth — I  never  knew — there's  a  big  gang — none  of  us 
know." 

"But  you  know  who  worked  with  you  in  this."  Jim- 
mie Dale  was  speaking  through  clenched  teeth.  "You 
know  who  killed  Forrester." 

"Yes."     The  man's  whisper  was  scarcely  audible. 

"Who?" 

"Reddy— Reddy  Mull." 

"Yes,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  in  his  grim  monotone,  "I 
thought  so." 

He  reached  into  the  satchel  where  a  small  package  of 


252       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

securities  were  wrapped  up  in  a  sheet  of  the  bank's 
stationery,  removed  the  sheet  of  paper,  and  spread  it 
out  before  English  Dick.  "Write  it  down!"  he  com- 
manded— and  the  muzzle  of  his  automatic  jerked  for- 
ward to  touch  the  fountain  pen  in  the  other's  vest  pocket 
"Wrfie  it — all  of  it — your  own  share — Reddy  Mull's— 
the  whole  story!" 

The  man's  lips  seemed  to  have  gone  dry  again,  and 
again  and  again  his  tongue  circled  them. 

"I  can't!"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  daren't— they'd  kill 
me.  And — and  if  they  didn't,  it  would  send  me  up,  and 
perhaps — perhaps  to  the  chair." 

"You  take  your  chances  on  that" — Jimmie  Dale's  voice 
was  low  and  even — "but  you  take  no  chances  here — for 
there  are  none."  The  automatic  in  Jimmie  Dale's  hand 
edged  ominously  forward.  "It's  Forrester's  exoneration 
— or  you.  Do  you  understand?  And  you  make  your 
choice — now." 

For  an  instant  the  man's  eyes  met  Jimmie  Dale's,  then 
shifted,  as  though  drawn  in  spite  of  himself,  to  the 
muzzle  of  Jimmie  Dale's  automatic;  and  then  his  hand 
reached  into  his  pocket  for  his  pen. 

From  the  pool  room  in  front  came  an  outburst  of 
hand-clapping  and  applause — there  was  evidently  a 
match  of  some  kind  going  on.  Jimmie  Dale,  his  eyes 
on  English  Dick,  as  the  latter  began  to  write  with  a  sort 
of  feverish  haste  as  though  fear  and  a  miserable  desire 
to  have  done  with  it  spurred  him  on,  picked  up  the  ar- 
ticles from  the  table,  and  placed  them  in  the  satchel 
He  waited  silently  then — and  then  English  Dick  pushed 
the  paper  toward  him. 

Jimmie  Dale  picked  it  up,  and  read  it.  It  was  all 
there,  all  of  it — and  the  signature  this  time  was  not 
forged !  He  placed  the  paper  in  the  satchel,  and  closed 
the  satchel. 


ALIAS  ENGLISH  DICK  253 

English  Dick  passed  his  hand  across  a  forehead  that 
was  beaded  with  perspiration. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked  under  his 
breath. 

"I'm  going  to  see  that  this — and  you — reaches  the 
hands  of  the  police,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  tersely.  "We'll 
leave  here  in  a  moment — by  the  window.  There's  a 
patrolman  who  passes  the  end  of  the  lane  once  in  a 
while,  and  I  expect,  with  the  aid  of  a  piece  of  cord  and 
a  pocket  handkerchief  as  a  gag,  that  he'll  find  you 
there.  My  method  may  be  a  little  crude,  but  I  have 
reasons  of  my  own  for  not  walking  into  a  police  station 
with  you.  But  before  we  go,  there's  still  that  matter  of 
— the  men  higher  up.  They  needed  a  clever  penman  for 
this  job  and  one  who  wouldn't  be  recognised — and  they 
got  the  best!  Who  brought  you  over  from  England?" 

"A  friend  over  there,  one  of  the  'swell  ones/  put  it 
up  to  me,"  English  Dick  answered  heavily. 

"Yes— and  here?"  prodded  Jimmk  Dale.  "Who  got 
you  into  the  bank  here?" 

"I  don't  know."  English  Dick  shook  his  head.  "I 
reported  to  a  man  called  Chester.  He  doped  out  the 
story  I  was  to  tell,  and  told  me  to  go  to  the  bank  and 
apply  for  the  job,  and  that  it  was  already  fixed." 

"I'd  like  to  meet  'Chester/  "  said  Jimmie  Dale  grimly. 
"Where  does  he  live  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  English  Dick  again.  "I  tell  you, 
I  don't  know !  They're  big — my  God,  they'll  get  me  for 
this,  if  the  law  doesn't !  I  don't  know  where  he  lives — 
he  always  came  to  me.  The  only  one  I  know  is  Reddy 
Mull,  and " 

His  voice  was  drowned  out  in  a  louder  and  more  pro- 
longed burst  of  applause  from  the  pool  room,  which 
mingled  shouts,  cries  and  the  thunderous  banging  of 
cue  butts  on  the  floor. 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"A  good  shot !"  said  Jimmie  Dale,  with  a  grim  smile. 

"Yes,"  said  English  Dick,  "a  good  shot"— but  into  his 
voice  had  crept  a  new  note,  a  note  like  one  of  malicious 
triumph. 

Jimmie  Dale's  lips  set  suddenly  hard  and  tight.  Yes, 
he  heard  now — perhaps  too  late — what  the  other  saw. 
The  uproar  that  had  drowned  out  all  other  sounds  had 
subsided — the  door  behind  hint  had  been  unlocked  and 
•was  now  opening  slowly. 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale,  quick  as  thought  is  quick,  his 
fingers  closed  on  the  satchel,  hurled  himself  around  the 
table  and  to  the  floor.  There  was  the  roar  of  a  report, 
a  flash  of  flame,  as  Reddy  Mull,  hand  thrust  in  through 
the  partially  open  doorway,  fired — a  wild  scream,  as 
the  shot,  meant  for  him,  Jimmie  Dale,  found  another 
mark  directly  behind  where  he  had  been  standing — and 
English  Dick,  reeling  to  his  feet,  pitched  forward  over 
the  table,  carrying  the  table  with  him  to  the  floor.  It 
had  taken  the  time  that  a  watch  takes  to  tick.  Came 
the  roar  of  a  report  again,  as  Jimmie  Dale  fired  in  turn 
— at  the  electric-light  bulb  a  few  feet  away  from  him 
on  the  wall.  There  was  the  tinkle  of  shattering  glass 
• — and  darkness.  Came  shouts,  cries,  a  yell  from  the 
door  from  Reddy  Mull,  a  fusillade  of  shots  from  Reddy 
Mull's  revolver,  the  rush  of  many  feet  from  the  pool 
room — and  Jimmie  Dale,  in  the  blackness,  dropped  si- 
lently from  the  window  to  the  ground. 

He  gained  the  street;  and,  five  minutes  later,  blocks 
away,  he  entered  the  private  stall  of  a  Bowery  saloon. 
Here,  Jimmie  Dale  added  another  paper  to  the  contents 
of  the  satchel.  The  characters  printed,  and  badly 
formed,  the  paper  looked  like  this : 


ALIAS  ENGLISH  DICK  355 

WITH  THE  COMPLIMENTS  OF  THE 


"And  I  guess,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  grimly  to  himself, 
''that  if  I  slip  this  to  the  police,  the  police  will  get— 
Reddy  Mull." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END 

HOW  far  away  last  night,  with  Forrester's  murde/ 
and  the  sordid  denouement  in  Reddy  Mull's  room, 
seemed!  How  far  away  even  half  an  hour  ago  this 
very  night  seemed !  Just  half  an  hour  ago !  Then,  with 
no  thought  but  one  of  dogged  perseverance  to  keep  up 
his  quest,  with  neither  hint  nor  sign  that  his  quest  was 
any  nearer  the  end  than  it  had  ever  been,  he  had  entered 
Bristol  Bob's,  here,  in  the  role  of  Smarlinghue ;  and  now, 
as  a  rift  that  had  opened  in  the  clouds,  there  had  come 
sudden  and  amazing  joy.  It  held  him  now  in  thrall.  It 
threatened  even  to  make  him  forget  that  he  was  for 
the  moment  Smarlinghue — forget  what,  as  Smarlinghue, 
Smarlinghue  dare  not  forget — the  role  he  played. 

He  leaned  forward  suddenly  and  caught  up  his  whisky 
glass — whose  contents  had  previously  and  surrepti- 
tiously been  spilled  into  the  cuspidor  on  the  floor  beside 
his  chair.  He  lifted  the  glass  to  his  mouth,  his  head 
thrown  back  as  though  to  drain  a  final,  lingering  drop, 
then  he  thumped  the  glass  down  on  the  table,  licked 
his  lips — thin  and  distorted  by  "Smarlinghue's"  make- 
up— and  wiped  them  with  the  sleeve  of  his  threadbare 
coat 

A  man  at  the  next  table,  well  known  as  the  Pippin, 
young,  flashily  dressed,  his  almost  effeminate  features 
giving  an  added  touch  of  viciousness,  through  incon- 

256 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END         25? 

gruity,  to  his  general  appearance,  twisted  his  head  around 
and  grinned  with  malicious  derision. 

Jimmie  Dale's  fingers  searched  hungrily  now  through 
first  one  and  then  another  of  his  ragged  pockets,  and 
finally  extricated  a  dime  and  a  nickel.  With  these  he 
tapped  insistently  on  the  table,  until  an  attendant  an- 
swered the  summons  and  supplied  him  with  another 
drink. 

He  sat  back  then  for  a  time;  now  eyeing  the  liquor, 
as  though  greedy  for  its  taste,  yet  greedy,  too,  to  pro- 
long the  anticipation,  since  from  his  actions  there  war 
apparently  no  means  of  further  replenishing  the  supr 
ply;  now  glancing  around  the  smoke-laden  room  where, 
on  the  polished  section  of  the  floor  in  the  centre,  a  score 
of  laughing,  shrieking  couples  whirled  and  pranced  in 
the  unrestrained  throes  of  the  underworld's  latest  dance ; 
aow  permitting  his  eyes  to  rest  with  a  sudden  scowl  on 
the  man  at  the  next  table.  He  had  no  concern  with 
the  Pippin — nor  had  the  Pippin  any  concern  with  him. 
The  man,  as  he  imbibed  a  number  of  drinks,  simply 
seemed  to  find  a  certain  malevolent  amusement  in  a  con- 
temptuous appraisal  of  his,  Jimmie  Dale's,  person;  but 
the  other,  in  spite  of  the  new,  glad  exhilaration  Jimmie 
Dale  was  experiencing,  annoyed  Jimmie  Dale — the  bla- 
tant expanse  of  pink  shirt  cuff,  for  instance,  in  order  to 
display  the  Pippin's  diamond-snake  links,  famous  from 
one  end  of  the  underworld  to  the  other,  was  eminently 
typical  of  the  man.  The  cuff  links  were  undoubtedly  an 
object  of  envy  to  the  society  in  which  the  Pippin  moved ; 
they  were  even  beautiful  cuff  links,  it  was  true,  oriental 
in  design,  never  to  be  mistaken  by  any  one  who  had 
ever  seen  them,  and  the  stones  with  which  they  v/ere 
set  were  credited  generally  in  the  underworld  as  being 
genuine,  but — Jimmie  Dale  was  hesitantly  lifting  his 
glass  again  in  a  queer,  miserly  sort  of  way.  The  Pippin 


258       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

had  jerked  a  cigarette  box  from  his  pocket,  stuck  what 
was  evidently  the  single  cigarette  it  had  contained  be 
tween  his  lips;  and  now,  tossing  away  the  box,  he 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  stood  up — but  on  the  floor 
beneath  the  table,  where  it  had  fluttered  unobserved 
when  the  cigarette  box  had  been  jerked  from  the  pocket, 
lay  a  small  folded  piece  of  paper. 

"If  you  hang  around  long  enough,   Smarly,"  gibej 
the  Pippin,  as  he  passed  by  on  his  way  toward  the  dooi 
"maybe  some  of  the  rubber-necks  off  the  gape-wagoi« 
will  take  pity  on  you  and  buy  you  another — the  slum 
ming  parties  are  just  crazy  about  broken-down  artists !' 

"You  go  chase  yourself!"  said  Smarlinghue  politely,, 
through  one  corner  of  his  twisted  mouth. 

Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  followed  the  other.  The  Pippin, 
threading  his  way  amongst  the  tables,  gained  the  door, 
and  passed  out  into  the  street.  And  then  Jimmie  Dale's 
eyes  reverted  to  the  piece  of  paper  under  the  adjacent 
table.  It  was  not  at  all  likely  that  it  was  of  the  slight- 
est importance  or  significance,  and  yet — Jimmie  Dale 
stretched  out  his  foot,  drew  the  paper  toward  him,  and, 
stooping  over,  picked  it  up.  He  unfolded  it,  and  found 
it  to  contain  several  typewritten  lines.  He  frowned  in 
a  puzzled  way  as  he  read  them;  then  read  them  over 
again,  and  his  frown  deepened. 

Melinoff  has  the  goods.  Go  the  limit  if  he  squeah. 
Not  later  than  ten-thirty  to-night. 

Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  lifted  and  strayed  around  the 
noisy,  riotous  dance  hall.  Just  what  exactly  did  th« 
message  mean?  The  Pippin  was  a  "bad  actor" — liter^ 
ally,  as  well  as  metaphorically.  The  Pippin,  if  asked, 
would  probably  still  have  styled  himself  an  actor;  but, 
though  still  young,  his  career  on  the  stage  had  ended 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END         259 

several  years  ago  rather  abruptly — with  a  year's  im- 
prisonment! Jimmie  Dale  did  not  recall  the  details  of 
the  particular  offence  of  which  the  Pippin  had  been 
found  guilty,  save  that  it  had  been  for  theft.  It  did 
not,  however,  matter  very  much.  The  Pippin  of  to-day 
as  he  was  known  to  the  underworld,  to  which  strata  of 
society  he  had  immediately  gravitated  on  his  release 
from  prison,  was  all  that  was  of  immediate  interest.  He 
had  associated  himself  with  a  gang  run  by  one  Steve 
Barlow,  commonly  known  as  the  Mole,  and  under  this 
august  patronage  and  protection  had  already  more  than 
one  "job"  of  the  first  magnitude  to  his  credit.  The 
Pippin,  in  a  word,  was  both  an  ugly  and  an  unpleasant 
customer. 

Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  continued  to  circuit  the  seedy  dance 
hall.  What  was  it  that  the  Pippin  was  to  procure  from 
Melinoff,  and  for  which,  if  necessary,  the  Pippin  was 
to  go  "the  limit"?  Melinoff  himself  was  not  with- 
out reproach,  either!  What  was  the  game?  Meli- 
noff was  an  old-clothes  and  junk  dealer,  and,  as  a 
side  line,  at  times  a  very  profitable  side  line,  had  been 
known  to  act  as  a  "fence"  for  stolen  goods.  He  had 
skirted  for  years  on  the  ragged  edge  with  the  police,  and 
then,  caught  red-handed  at  last,  had  changed  his  occupa- 
tion for  a  more  useful  one  during  a  somewhat  prolonged 
sojourn  in  Sing  Sing.  Affairs  after  that  had  not  pros- 
pered with  Melinoff.  His  wife,  honest  if  her  husband 
was  not,  and  already  an  old  woman,  had  been  hard  put 
to  it  with  the  shabby  shop  and  the  meagre  business  she 
was  able  to  transact;  so  hard  put  to  it,  indeed,  that  the 
wonder  had  been  that  she  had  managed  to  keep  the  roof 
over  her  head.  She  had  died  a  few  months  after  her 
husband's  release.  Melinoff,  if  he  had  had  no  other 
virtue,  had  at  least  loved  his  wife,  and  the  Melinoff  of 
old,  then  a  sprightly  enough  man  for  his  years,  was  no 


260       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

more,  and  it  was  a  decrepit,  stoop-shouldered,  dirty  and 
grey-bearded  figure  that  shuffled  now  around  the  old- 
clothes  shop,  apathetic  of  "bargains,"  where  before  it  had 
been  a  man  whose  keenness  was  matched  only  by  the  sort 
of  eager  craft  and  low  cunning  with  which  he  had  con- 
ducted his  business. 

A  smile,  half  grim,  half  whimsical,  flickered  across 
Jimmie  Dale's  lips.  There  were  strange  lives,  strange 
undercurrents,  always,  ceaselessly,  at  work  here  in  the 
underworld,  here  where  the  grist  from  the  human  mill 
found  its  place.  Melinoff,  the  Pippin,  each  of  those 
whirling  figures  out  there  on  the  floor,  each  of  those 
men  and  women  whose  laughter  rose  raucously  from 
the  tables,  or  whose  whisperings,  as  heads  were  lowered 
and  held  close  together,  seemed  an  unsavoury,  vicious 
thing,  had  known  a  strange  and  tortuous  path;  yet 
strangest,  most  tortuous  of  them  all,  was — his  own ! 

His  fingers,  as  he  thrust  the  Pippin's  note  into  the  side 
pocket  of  his  coat,  touched  the  tors  fragments  of  an- 
other note,  tiny  little  particles  of  paper,  torn  over  and 
over  again  into  fine  and  minute  shreds — the  Tocsin's  note 
— the  note  that  seemed  suddenly  to  have  changed  all  his 
life.  It  had  come  as  her  communications  had  always 
come — without  bridging  the  way  that  lay  between  them, 
without  furnishing  him  with  a  clue  through  the  method 
employed  for  their  transmission  that  would  avail  him 
anything,  or  supply  him  with  any  means  of  reaching  her. 
It  had  been  thrust  into  his  hand  by  a  street  urchin,  as 
he  had  entered  the  door  of  Bristol  Bob's  that  half  an 
hour  before.  He  had  not  even  questioned  the  urchin — 
it  would  have  been  useless,  futile,  barren  of  results.  A 
hundred  previous  experiences  had  at  least  taught  him 
that!  He  could  surmise  about  it,  though,  if  he  would; 
and,  in  view  of  the  contents  of  the  note  itself,  surmise, 
in  all  probability,  with  fair  accuracy.  The  Tocsin  had 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END         261 

satisfied  herself  that  he  was  neither  at  home  nor  at  the 
club,  and  had,  therefore,  chosen  an  inconspicuous  mes- 
senger to  search  for  "Smarlinghue"  through  the  under- 
world. And  there  would  have  been  no  risk.  For  the 
first  time  in  all  the  years  that  her  letters  had  been  the 
motive  force,  the  underlying  basis  of  the  Gray  Seal's 
acts,  it  would  not,  as  far  as  dangerous  consequences  were 
concerned,  have  mattered  if  the  note  had  gone  astray, 
or  had  even  been  read  by  others.  He  need  not  even 
have  torn  it  up,  as  he  had  done  through  force  of  habit, 
for  there  was  no  "plan"  to-night,  no  coup  to  carry 
through.  The  note,  for  the  first  time,  was  not  a  "call  to 
arms;"  it  was  what  he  had  been  longing  for,  always 
hoping  for,  yet  never  permitting  himself  to  build  too 
strongly  upon  lest  he  should  lay  up  for  himself  a  store 
of  disappointment  too  bitter  for  endurance — it  was  a 
note  of  hope.  There  were  just  a  few  lines,  a  few  sen- 
tences ;  and  it  had  contained  neither  form  of  address  nor 
signature.  To  any  one  save  himself  it  meant  nothing,  it 
had  no  significance.  Snatches  of  it  ran  through  his  mind 
again: 

".  .  .  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end  .  .  .  The  way  is 
clearing  ...  I  am  very  happy  to-night,  and  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  so  .  .  ." 

The  end  at  last!  The  end  of  the  years  of  peril;  the 
end  of  that  fear  gnawing  always  at  his  heart  that  she 
might  never  live  to  come  out  into  the  sunlight  again ;  the 
end  of  this  dual  life  he  led;  the  return  to  a  normal  ex- 
istence where  surroundings  like  the  present,  where  the 
dens  and  dives  of  the  underworld,  the  secret  rookeries 
nursing  their  hell-hatched  crimes,  the  taint  and  smell  of 
evil,  and  the  reek  of  soul-filth  would  be  hereafter  no 
more  than  a  memory !  To  be  through  with  it  all,  through 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

with  it  all,  and  to  know  her  love  instead — because  sHe 
was  safe! 

He  stared  about  him,  and  stared  with  queer  incredulity 
at  his  own  miserable  clothing.  Was  it  true,  was  it  reality 
— this  figure  that  the  underworld  knew  as  Smarlinghue, 
who  sat  here,  and  with  dirty  fingers  played  with  a  whisky 
glass  on  the  cheap,  liquor-spotted  table,  and  out  of  half- 
closed,  well-simulated  drug-laden  eyes  gazed  on  those 
dancing  figures  out  there  on  the  floor  to  whom  the  law 
from  cradlehood  had  been  a  natural  enemy,  and  to  the 
door  of  hardly  one  of  whom  but  lay  crimes  that  ranged 
from  the  paltry  to  the  hideous ! 

Reality!  Yes,  it  was  real!  God  knew  the  abysma'/ 
depths  of  its  reality.  Months  piled  on  months  there 
had  been  of  it!  Those  voices  out  there  that  rose  in  a 
jangle  of  ribald  mirth  were  the  same  voices  that,  hushed 
in  deadlier  menace,  had  whispered  that  grim  slogan^ 
"Death  to  the  Gray  Seal !"  through  every  hidden  cranny 
in  the  underworld;  these  men  and  women  here  around 
him  were  of  the  same  breed  as  those  who  only  last  night 
had  struck  down  and  brutally  murdered  Forrester,  and 
not  content  with  murder  had  plotted  to  rob  their  victim 
of  his  good  name  as  well! 

Jimmie  Dale's  hand  clenched  suddenly — his  mind  was. 
off  at  a  tangent,  away  for  the  moment  from  her.  Well, 
they  had  failed  last  night  in  all  save  murder!  Failed — 
and  one  of  them  had  already  paid  the  price,  and  another, 
in  the  Tombs  awaiting  trial,  faced  the  certainty  of  tfo: 
death  chair  in  Sing  Sing!  But  those  two,  Reddy  Mull 
and  English  Dick,  had  been  little  more  than  tools.  Whose 
was  the  hidden  master  brain  behind  them,  controlling 
this  evil  power  that  struck  in  the  dark ;  that  lately,  though 
unseen,  was  permeating  the  underworld  with  its  pres- 
ence ;  that  intuitively  he  had  felt  was  reaching  out,  feeling 
its  way ,  to  grapple  with  and,  if  it  could,  to  strangle  him — 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END         263 

the  Gray  Seal!  He  had  felt  the  menace,  known  that  it 
existed,  and  the  slogan  ringing  always  in  his  ears,  the 
Whispered  "Death  to  the  Gray  Seal"  had  taken  on  a 
deeper  significance,  had  brought  him  a  more  acute  and 
imminent  sense  of  peril  than  ever  before;  but  it  was 
only  last  night,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  had  equally 
felt  that  he  had  had  any  concrete  knowledge  of,  or  con- 
tact with  this  new  antagonist.  And  last  night,  if  there 
had  been  a  challenge  he  had  accepted  it,  and  if  there 
had  been  no  challenge  he  had  at  least  thrown  down  the 
gauntlet  himself!  If  this  was  actually  the  criminal  or- 
ganisation that  was  arrayed  against  him,  the  mastef 
brain  at  the  head  of  it  would  now  have  a  greater  in- 
centive than  ever  to  trap  and  exterminate  the  Gray  Seal, 
for  English  Dick  lay  dead,  and  Reddy  Mull  was  be- 
hind the  bars,  and  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  cash  that 
they  had  schemed  for  was  in  the  hands  of  the  police — 
thanks  to  the  Gray  Seal !  Added  incentive !  They  would 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  reach  him  now!  All  the 
trickery,  all  the  hell-born  ingenuity  that  they  possessed 
would  be  launched  against  him  now,  and — Jimmie  Dale's 
face,  that  had  been  set  and  hard,  relaxed  suddenly. 
Well,  granted  all  that !  What  did  it  matter  now  ?  They 
would  but  hunt  a  myth!  Between  them  and  himself 
now  there  stood  the  Tocsin's  note.  "The  way  is  clear- 
ing. ...  I  am  very  happy  to-night."  She  would  not 
have  written  that  unless  she  were  very  sure.  To-mor- 
row, perhaps,  and  Smarlinghue,  and  the  Gray  Seal,  and 
Larry  the  Bat  would  have  passed  forever  out  of  ex- 
istence, and  there  would  be  only  Jimmie  Dale,  and  she, 
tlnd  love — and  a  phantom  left  behind  in  the  underworld 
against  whom  the  underworld  and  this  evil  genius  of 
crime  might  pit  their  wits  to  their  hearts'  content ! 

There  was  an  uplift  upon  him,  a  sense  of  freedom  so 
great  that  it  seemed  actually  physical  as  well  as  met*-- 


264       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

tal.  Peril,  danger,  the  strain  of  the  dual  life  until  thai 
nerves  were  worn  raw,  the  constant  anxiety  for  her 
safety — all  were  gone  now.  "It  is  the  beginning  of  the 
end  .  .  .  the  way  is  clearing" — she  had  written  that  to- 
night. And  it  meant  that,  refusing,  as  she  had  said,  to 
let  him  come  into  the  shadows  again,  she  had  won 
through — alone.  It  brought  a  little,  curious  pang  of 
disappointment  to  him  that  he  should  share  now  only  in 
the  reward;  but  the  pang  was  swallowed  up  in  that  it 
brought  him  a  deeper  knowledge  of  her  unselfish  love, 
her  splendid  courage,  and — he  could  find  no  other  word 
— her  wonderfulness. 

Jimmie  Dale's  fingers  stole  into  the  side  pocket  of  his 
coat  to  play  again  in  a  curiously  caressing  way  with  the 
little  torn  fragments  of  her  note — and  touched  again  the 
piece  of  paper  that  the  Pippin  had  dropped.  He  took 
it  out  mechanically,  and  read  it  over  once  more.  One 
sentence  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  particularly 
ominous — "if  he  squeals  go  the  limit."  He  knew  noth- 
ing as  to  the  authorship  of  those  words,  but  from  what 
he  knew  of  the  Pippin  there  was  a  certain  ugliness  to 
the  word  "limit"  that  he  did  not  like.  The  "limit"  with 
the  Pippin  might  mean — anything. 

He  thrust  the  paper  back  into  his  pocket,  and  sat  for 
a  moment  staring  musingly  at  his  whisky  glass.  Well, 
why  not?  Before  half  past  ten,  the  message  said;  and  it 
was  scarcely  ten  o'clock  yet.  In  view  of  the  Tocsin's 
note,  he  had  intended  returning  to  the  Sanctuary,  re- 
suming his  own  proper  character,  and,  either  at  the  St. 
James  Club,  or  at  his  home,  wait  for  further  word  from 
her.  There  was,  indeed,  nothing  else  that  he  could  do—- 
and Melinoff's,  for  that  matter,  was  on  the  way  from 
Bristol  Bob's  to  the  Sanctuary.  Yes,  why  not?  J£  the 
Pippin  was  up  to  any  dirty  work,  or  even  if  the  two  of 
them,  Melinoff  and  the  Pippin,  were  in  it  together,  and 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END         265 

the  word  "squeal"  implied  that  Melinoff  was  to  be  held 
strictly  up  to  his  full  share  of  some  mutual  villainy 
should  he  show  any  inclination  to  waver,  it  might  not 
be  an  altogether  unfitting  exit  from  the  stage  if  the 
Gray  Seal  should  make  his  final  bow  to  the  underworld 
by  playing  a  role  in  the  Pippin's  little  drama,  whatever 
that  drama  might  prove  to  be ! 

Yes,  why  not!  He  passed  Melinoffs  place  in  any 
event,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  remain 
any  longer  here  in  Bristol  Bob's.  The  second  glass  of 
whisky  followed  the  first — into  the  cuspidor.  Again  the 
threadbare  sleeve  was  drawn  across  the  thin,  distorted 
lips,  and,  pushing  back  his  chair,  Jimmie  Dale  rose  from 
the  teble  and  made  his  way  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP 

'TEN  minutes  later,  still  in  the  heart  of  the  East  Side, 
J.  Jimmie  Dale  reached  his  destination,  and  paused  on 
the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  ostensibly  to  light  a  cigarette 
while  he  looked  tentatively  around  him,  before  the  en- 
trance to  a  courtyard  that  ran  in  behind  a  row  of  cheap 
and  shabby  tenements.  He  shook  his  head,  as  he  tossed 
the  match  away.  It  was  still  early ;  there  were  too  many 
people  about,  to  say  nothing  of  the  group  of  half-naked 
children  playing  in  the  gutter  under  the  street  lamp  in 
front  of  the  courtyard  entrance,  and  "Smarlinghue"  was 
far  too  well  known  a  character  in  that  section  of  the  Bad 
Lands  to  warrant  him  in  taking  any  chances.  If  any* 
thing  was  wrong  in  Melinoff's  dingy  little  place  behind 
there,  if  anything  had  transpired,  or  was  about  to  trans- 
pire that  would  ultimately,  say,  invite  the  attention  of  the 
police,  it  might  prove  extremely  awkward — for  Smarl 
inghue — should  it  be  remembered  that  he  had  entered 
there !  There  was  a  better  way — a  much  better  way,  and 
one  that  was  exceedingly  simple.  It  would  hardly  occa- 
sion any  comment,  even  if  he  were  noticed,  if  he  entered 
one  of  the  tenements,  where,  with  probably  a  dozen 
families  hiving  in  as  many  rooms,  one  could  come  and 
go  at  all  hours  without  question  or  hindrance. 

He  moved  slowly  along,  and,  out  of  the  radius  of  the 
street  lamp  now  and  away  from  the  children,  paused 
again,  this  time  before  the  last  tenement  in  the  row  that 

266 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP  267 

made  the  front  of  the  courtyard  in  the  rear.  For  the 
moment  there  were  no  pedestrians  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood,  and  Jimmie  Dale,  stepping  through  the 
tenement  doorway,  gained  the  narrow,  unlighted  hall 
within.  He  stopped  here,  hugged  close  against  the  wall, 
to  listen,  and,  hearing  or  seeing  nothing  to  disturb  him, 
moved  forward  again,  silently,  without  a  sound,  along 
the  hall.  There  must  be,  he  knew,  a  rear  exit  to  the 
courtyard  behind.  Yes — here  it  was!  He  had  halted 
again,  this  time  before  a  door.  He  tried  it,  found  it 
unlocked,  opened  it,  stepped  outside,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

It  was  dark  out  here  in  the  courtyard,  and  objects 
were  only  faintly  discernible;  but  there  were  few  locali- 
ties in  that  neighbourhood  with  which  Jimmie  Dale, 
either  as  Smarlinghue,  or  in  the  old  days  as  Larry  the 
Bat,  was  not  intimately  acquainted.  To  call  it  a  court- 
yard hardly  described  the  place.  It  was  more  an  open 
backyard  common  to  the  row  of  tenements,  and  rather 
narrow  and  confined  in  space  at  that.  It  was  dirty, 
cluttered  with  rubbish,  and  across  it,  facing  the  rear  of 
the  tenements,  was  a  small  building  that  many  years  ago 
had  been,  possibly,  a  stable  or  an  outhouse  belonging  to 
some  private  and  no  doubt  pretentious  dwelling,  which 
long  since  now,  with  the  progress  northward  of  the  city, 
had  been  supplanted  by  the  crowded,  poverty-stricken, 
and  anything  but  pretentious  tenements.  This  outhouse 
had  been  to  a  certain  extent  remodelled,  and  to  a  certain 
extent  made  habitable,  and  as  long  as  any  one  could  re- 
member MelinofT  with  his  old-clothes  shop  had  been  its 
tenant. 

Jimmie  Dale  began  to  make  his  way  cautiously  across 
the  yard,  wary  of  the  tin  cans  and  general  rubbish  which 
an  inadvertent  step  might  metamorphose  most  effectively 
into  a  decidedly  undesirable  advertisement  of  his  pres- 


268       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

ence.  There  was  no  light  that  he  could  see  in  Melinoff's 
at  all ;  and  he  frowned  now  in  a  puzzled  way.  Had  the 
Pippin  been  and  gone ;  or  was  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  ahead  of 
the  Pippin?  The  Pippin  would  have  had  ample  time,  of 
course,  to  get  here,  for  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  probably 
remained  in  Bristol  Bob's  a  good  half  hour  after  the 
Pippin  had  left.  In  that  case,  then,  Melinoff  must  have 
gone  away  with  the  Pippin  again — that  would  account 
for  there  being  no  light.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  the 
Pippin  had  not  yet  arrived,  and  Melinoff  expected  the 
visit,  it  was  most  curious  that  the  place  was  in  dark- 
ness! 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  smiled  a  little  mockingly  at 
himself.  His  deductions  would  perhaps  have  been  of 
infinitely  more  value  if  he  had  first  waited  to  make  sure 
of  the  premise  on  which  they  were  based !  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  there  was  a  light!  He  had  reached  the  front 
of  the  little  place,  and  peering  cautiously  through  the 
window  could  make  out,  across  the  black  interior,  a 
thread  of  light  that  came  through  the  crack  of  a  closed 
door,  and  from  what  was,  evidently,  another  room  in  the 
rear. 

Jimmie  Dale's  fingers  closed  on  the  heavy,  cumber- 
some, old-fashioned  door  latch,  pressed  it  down  noise- 
lessly, and  exerted  a  little  tentative  pressure  on  the 
door  itself.  It  was  locked.  A  minute  passed  in  abso- 
lute silence,  as  a  little  steel  instrument  was  inserted  in 
the  lock — and  then  the  door  swung  inward  and  was 
closed  again,  and  Jimmie  Dale,  rigid  and  motionless, 
stood  inside. 

He  was  listening  now  for  some  sound,  the  sound  of 
voices,  or  the  sound  of  movement  from  that  lighted 
room.  There  was  nothing.  Jimmie  Dale's  lips  tightened 
suddenly.  It  was  very  curious!  There  was  an  "up- 
stairs" to  the  place,  such  as  it  was,  but  if  Melinoff  was 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP  269 

wp  there  alone,  or  with  the  Pippin,  they  were  up  there 
in  the  dark  unless  they  were  in  the  rear  upstairs  room; 
in  which  case  they  could  not,  in  view  of  the  ramshackle 
nature  of  the  building,  have  made  the  slightest  move- 
ment without  making  themselves  heard  from  where  he 
stood. 

From  his  pocket  Jimmie  Dale  produced  a  flashlight 
The  ray  played  once,  as  though  with  queer,  diffident 
curiosity,  about  him,  swept  once  more  in  a  circuit  around 
the  room,  swiftly,  in  an  almost  startled  way  this  tim& 
— and  there  was  darkness  again.  And,  instead  of  the 
flashlight,  Jimmie  Dale's  automatic  was  in  his  hand 
now,  and  he  was  moving  quickly  and  silently  forward 
toward  that  thread  of  light  and  the  closed  door  leading 
into  the  rear  room. 

Around  him  everything  was  in  disorder;  not  the  dis- 
order habitual  to  such  a  place  where  odds  and  ends  of 
the  heterogeneous  accumulation  of  MelinofFs  stock  in 
trade  might  be  expected  to  be  deposited  wherever  con- 
venience and  not  system  dictated,  but  a  disorder  that 
seemed  to  hold  within  itself  something  of  ominous  prom- 
ise. Old  clothes,  for  instance,  that  might  at  least  have 
been  expected,  even  with  the  most  profound  carelessness 
and  indifference,  to  have  received  better  treatment,  were 
strewn  and  scattered  about  the  floor  in  all  directions. 

And  now  Jimmie  Dale  stood  still  again.  There  was  a 
sound  at  last;  but  a  sound  that  he  could  not  imme- 
diately define.  It  came  from  the  room  beyond — like  a 
dull,  muffled  thud  mingling  with  a  low,  long-drawn  gasp. 
It  was  repeated — and  then,  unmistakably,  there  came  a 
moan. 

In  a  flash  now,  Jimmie  Dale,  his  automatic  thrust  for- 
ward, was  at  the  door.  He  stooped  with  his  eye  to  the 
keyhole ;  and  the  next  instant,  his  face  hard  and  tense,  he 
flung  the  door  open,  and  jumped  forward  into  the  room. 


Those  words  of  the  Pippin's  note  seemed  to  be  searing 
through  his  brain  in  letters  of  fire — "go  the  limit — go  the 
limit."  There  was  no  need  to  speculate  longer  on  their 
meaning;  they  meant — murder.  On  the  floor,  a  dark 
ugly,  crimson  pool  beside  him,  lay  Melinoff,  the  old- 
clothes  dealer.  And  as  Jimmie  Dale  sprang  to  the 
other's  side,  there  came  again  that  curious  muffled  thud — 
as  the  old  man  weakly  lifted  his  head  a  few  inches  from 
the  floor  only  to  have  it  fall  limply  back  again.  The 
man  was  nearly  gone — it  needed  no  experienced  eye  to 
tell  that.  Melinoff's  face  was  grayish  in  its  pallor,  and 
his  eyes,  open,  seemed  to  have  lost  their  lustre;  but 
as  Jimmie  Dale  knelt  and  lifted  the  man's  shoulders  and 
supported  the  other's  head  upon  his  knee,  the  light  in 
the  old-clothes  dealer's  black  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to 
return  and  to  glow  with  a  strange,  passionate,  eager  fire, 
as  they  fixed  on  Jimmie  Dale's  face.  Melinoff's  lips 
moved.  Jimmie  Dale  bent  his  head  to  catch  the  words 
that  were  almost  inaudible. 

"The — the  Pippin.  Here" — the  old  man's  hand  strug- 
gled toward  his  side  where  a  dark  crimson  blotch  had 
soaked  his  shirt — "here — he — he  stabbed  me — because — 

because "  The  voice  failed  and  died  away,  and  the 

man's  head  fell  back  on  Jimmie  Dale's  arm. 

Jimmie  Dale  raised  the  other's  head  gently  again. 

"Yes!"  he  said  quickly,  striving  to  rouse  the  other. 
"Yes;  go  on!  I  understand.  The  Pippin  stabbed  you. 
Because — what?  Go  on,  Melinoff!  Go  on!  I  am  lis- 
tening." 

The  eyes  opened  once  more — but  the  light  was  dying 
out  of  them,  and  they  were  filming  now.  And  then 
suddenly  the  man  forced  himself  forward  into  a  sitting 
posture,  and  his  voice  rang  wildly  through  the  room : 

"It  is  a  lie!  A  lie!  I  played  square — do  you  hear! 
Old  Melinoff  played  square!  I  did  not  understand  at 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP  271 

first — but  I  did  not  forget.  I  remembered.  Old  Melinoff 
would  never  forget — never  forget — never  for " 

A  tremor  ran  through  the  old  man's  form,  the  voice 
was  stilled — it  was  the  end. 

For  a  moment,  his  lips  tight  and  set,  Jimmie  Dale  held 
the  other  there  in  his  arms,  as  he  stared  at  a  little  object 
on  the  floor  where  Melinoff  had  been  lying,  and  that 
previously  had  been  hidden  beneath  the  other's  body — 
an  object  that  glittered  and  sparkled  now  as  the  light 
caught  it.  There  had  even  been  then,  it  seemed,  no 
need  for  Melinoff's  dying  accusation — the  evidence  of 
the  Pippin's  guilt  would  have  been  plain  enough  to  the 
first  person  who  found  old  Melinoff  and  moved  the  old 
man's  body.  For  himself,  Jimmie  Dale,  the  Pippin's 
note,  since  it  had  actuated  him  in  coming  here,  would 
have  been  enough  to  have  fixed  the  guilt  in  his  mind 
where  it  belonged;  but  the  police,  for  instance,  would 
not  have  been  so  well  informed!  The  police,  however, 
would  now  have  all,  and  more  than  all  the  evidence 
they  required.  That  little  thing  that  glittered  there  was 
one  of  the  Pippin's  notorious  diamond-snake  cuff  links. 

Jimmie  Dale  did  not  disturb  it.  He  laid  old  Melinoff 
back  on  the  floor,  and  the  old  man's  body  covered  the 
cuff  link  again  as  it  had  done  before.  He  stood  up 
then,  and  looked  around  him.  The  room  seemed  to  have 
been  used  for  no  one  particular  purpose.  It  was  par- 
titioned off  from  the  shop  proper,  it  was  true;  but, 
equally,  it  appeared  to  have  been  used  as  a  sort  of 
overflow  for  the  shop's  stock  in  trade.  Here,  as  in 
front,  clothing  of  all  descriptions  littered  the  floor;  and 
also  there  were  signs  that  a  violent  struggle  had  taken 
place.  The  room,  which  had  obviously  served,  apart 
from  being  a  store-room,  as  kitchen,  dining  room,  and, 
in  fact,  for  everything  save  a  bedroom,  was  in  a  state 
of  chaos — chairs  were  upset,  a  table  stood  up-ended 


272       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

against  the  wall,  and  broken  crockery  was  strewn  every- 
where. 

At  the  rear  of  the  room  was  another  door.  Jimmie 
Dale  reached  up,  turned  off  the  gas-jet,  crossed  to  the 
door,  found  it  unlocked,  opened  it  a  few  inches,  and 
looked  out.  It  gave  on  the  rear  of  the  courtyard,  and 
in  the  darkness  he  could  just  make  out  a  high  fence 
that  bordered  the  adjoining  property.  It  was  presum- 
ably the  way  by  which  the  Pippin  had  made  his  escape, 
since  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  found  the  front  door  locked. 

He  closed  the  door  again,  relighted  the  gas,  and, 
moving  swiftly  now,  passed  through  into  the  shop  and 
locked  the  front  door.  Then,  returning  to  the  upper 
end  of  the  shop  close  to  the  connecting  door,  which  he 
closed  until  it  was  just  ajar,  Jimmie  Dale  slipped  a 
black  silk  mask  over  his  face,  seated  himself  on  a  box 
of  some  sort  that  he  found  at  hand,  and,  save  that  his 
fingers  mechanically  tested  the  automatic  in  his  hand, 
remained  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  rear  door 
across  the  lighted  room  in  which  old  Melinoff  lay. 

It  was  dark  here  and  silent,  except  that  from  out 
across  the  courtyard  came  faintly  now  and  then  the 
voices  of  the  children  at  play  in  the  gutters,  and  except 
that  a  faint  glow  stole  timidly  out  from  the  slightly 
opened  door  only  to  merge  almost  immediately  with  the 
surrounding  blackness.  The  tight  lips  had  curved  down- 
ward at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  into  a  grim,  merciless 
droop ;  and  into  the  dark,  steady  eyes  there  had  come  a 
smouldering  fire.  It  was  a  brutal,  cowardly  thing  that 
had  been  done  there  in  that  room,  and  the  Pippin  had 
finished  his  work  and  gone — but  it  was  not  at  all  unlikely 
that  the  Pippin  would  be  back ! 

The  sharp  lines  at  the  corners  of  Jimmie  Dale's  mouth 
grew  a  little  more  pronounced.  Nor  should  the  Pippin 
be  long  in  returning!  A  man  could  not  very  well  lose 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP  273 

a  cuff  link  and  be  unaware  of  that  fact  for  any  extended 
length  of  time.  And  that  cuff  link  was  damning,  ir- 
refutable, incontrovertible  evidence,  exactly  the  evidence 
the  police  required  to  convict  the  guilty  man !  Yes,  un- 
doubtedly, the  Pippin  would  be  back — and  at  any  mo- 
ment now.  Figuring  that  the  Pippin  had  left  Bristol 
Bob's  half  an  hour  before  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  started 
out,  and  allowing,  say,  twenty  minutes  for  the  struggle 
and  subsequent  murder  here,  the  Pippin  could  only  have 
been  gone  a  matter  of  some  ten  minutes.  In  the  excite- 
ment, and  probably  a  run  through  lanes  and  alleyways, 
it  was  quite  possible  that  the  Pippin  would  not  have 
noticed  his  loss  in  that  length  of  time ;  but  he  could  not, 
with  a  loose  cuff,  and  especially  when  it  was  usually 
fastened  by  so  highly  prized  a  link,  have  remained  much 
kmger  than  that  in  ignorance  of  his  loss. 

Jimmie  Dale  smiled  grimly  now  in  the  darkness.  It 
was  almost  analogous  to  Meighan's  waiting  for  the  re- 
turn of  the  Magpie,  except  that  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had 
neither  the  desire  nor  the  intention  of  usurping  the  func- 
tions of  the  police.  "Smarlinghue,"  for  very  obvious 
reasons,  could  neither  appear  nor  bear  witness  in  the 
case;  he  could  take  no  chances  of  the  discovery  being 
made  that  "Smarlinghue"  was  but  a  clwwacter  that 
cloaked  Jimmie  Dale  and  the  Gray  Seal — and,  above 
all,  he  could  take  no  chances  to-night  when  at  last  he 
was  on  the  threshold  of  the  return  to  his  old  normal 
life  again !  But  he  had,  nevertheless,  no  intention  of  per- 
mitting the  Pippin  to  elude  the  law,  or  to  escape  the  con- 
sequences of  the  act  to  which  that  mute  form  lying  in 
there  on  the  crimsoned  floor  bore  hideous  testimony. 
The  cuff  link,  obviously  loosened  and  dropped  unnoticed 
on  the  floor  during  the  struggle,  would  not  only  connect 
the  Pippin  with  the  crime,  but  would  convict  him  of  it 
as  well;  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  therefore,  did  not  propose  to 


274       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

allow  the  Pippin  to  return  and  remove  that  evidence — > 
that  was  all.  It  should  not  be  very  difficult  to  prevent  it ; 
nor  should  it  even  necessitate  his  showing  himself  to 
the  Pippin.  A  shot,  for  instance,  fired  at  the  floor,  as 
the  Pippin  stole  in  through  that  rear  door  again  shoula 
be  enough  to  send  the  man  flying  back  for  shelter  to  the 
recesses  of  the  underworld.  The  Pippin's  nerves,  as  he 
crept  back  to  the  scene  of  his  crime,  would  be  badly 
frayed  and  unstrung,  unless  he  was  a  man  lacking  wholly 
in  imagination,  which  the  Pippin,  once  having  been  an 
actor,  inherently  could  not  be;  and,  coupled  with  this, 
prompting  the  Pippin  to  run  at  once  for  cover,  would  be 
the  fact  that  he  could  not  by  any  means  be  certain  that 
the  link  had  been  lost  there  in  the  room  itself,  since  it 
might  equally  have  been  forced  loose  during  his  escape> 
say,  for  instance,  while  climbing  the  series  of  backyard 
fences  that  would  have  confronted  him  from  the  moment 
he  left  Melinoff's  rear  door — providing  always,  of  course, 
that  the  Pippin,  as  it  seemed  logical  and  as  the  evidence 
seemed  to  indicate,  had  made  his  escape  in  that  man- 
ner. 

The  minutes  passed;  at  first  quickly  enough,  and  then 
they  began  to  drag  heavily.  Jimmie  Dale's  mind  wa< 
back  now  on  old  Melinoff.  What  had  the  man  meant 
by  his  feverish,  eager,  pitiful  insistence  that  he  had  not 
forgotten,  that  he  had  remembered,  that  he  could  never 
forget,  and  that  he  had  not  understood  at  first?  The 
answer  to  that  question  would  supply  the  motive  for 
the  Pippin's  crime,  and  for  half  an  hour,  sitting  there 
in  the  darkness,  Jimmie  Dale  pondered  the  question,  but 
the  answer  would  not  come.  There  were  theories  with- 
out number  that  he  could  formulate ;  but  theories  at  best 
were  indefinite.  What  had  Melinoff  meant  by  saying 
he  had  played  square?  Was  it  some  previous  criminal 
undertaking  between  himself  and  the  Pippin,  in  which 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP  275 

the  Pippin  believed  himself  to  have  been  betrayed  by 
Melinoff,  while  Melinoff,  on  the  other  hand,  protested 
that — and  then  Jimmie  Dale  shrugged  his  shoulders  im- 
patiently. What  was  the  use  of  speculation?  The  vital 
matter  of  the  moment  was  the  Pippin's  delay  in  return- 
ing for  that  cuff  link ! 

Another  fifteen  minutes  passed,  and  still  another — 
and  then  Jimmie  Dale  restored  his  mask  to  his  pocket, 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  made  his  way  to  the  front  door 
of  the  shop.  He  had  waited  there  a  full  hour  and  over 
now,  his  only  purpose  had  been  to  prevent  the  removal 
of  the  evidence  of  the  Pippin's  guilt  by  the  Pippin,  and 
logic  told  him  it  was  useless  to  wait  longer.  It  was  only 
fair  to  assume  that  the  Pippin  would  have  discovered 
his  loss  within  a  reasonably  short  time  after  leaving 
Melinoff's;  and,  granting  that,  it  was  absolutely  certain 
that  the  Pippin,  if  he  were  coming  back  at  all,  would 
have  come  without  an  instant's  delay  if  he  believed  that 
his  life  hung  on  the  recovery  of  his  property.  He  had 
not  come,  and  therefore,  conversely,  the  Pippin  must 
have  weighed  the  chances  and  concluded  that  the  risk 
attendant  on  his  return  to  the  scene  of  his  crime  was 
greater  than  the  risk  he  ran  of  the  cuff  link  having  been 
lost  in  that  exact  spot.  Nor  was  the  Pippin's  presumed 
reasoning  entirely  faulty — from  the  Pippin's  standpoint. 
It  was  obvious  that  he  did  not  know  where  he  had  lost 
the  link ;  it  was  only  a  chance  that  he  had  lost  it  on  the 
actual  scene  of  the  crime;  and  even  if  he  had  lost  it 
there,  and  even  if  he  returned,  it  was  only  a  chance  that 
he  would  be  able  to  find  it  again — and  against  this  was 
the  very  grave  risk  and  danger  of  returning  to  Melinoff's 
after  having  once  got  safely  away.  But  whatever  the 
Pippin's  reasoning  might  have  been,  the  one  morally  cer- 
tain fact  remained — every  minute  of  delay  increased  the 
risk  that  the  cuff  link  would  be  found  by  some  one  else, . 


276       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

and  if  the  Pippin  were  coming  back  at  all  he  would 
have  been  back  long  before  this. 

Jimmie  Dale  closed  the  door  of  the  old-clothes  shop 
behind  him,  crossed  the  yard,  and  using  the  back  door 
of  the  tenement  again,  gained  the  street.  Well,  he  was 
quite  satisfied !  The  hour  he  had  spent  there  mattered 
little.  He  had  desired  only  one  thing — that  the  evidence 
of  the  Pippin's  guilt  should  not  be  disturbed.  And  for 
the  rest — he  smiled  whimsically  as  he  started  briskly 
along  the  street — there  was  Carruthers,  of  the  Morning 
News-Argus,  who,  if,  in  the  old  days,  he  had  been  one  of 
the  most  dogged  and  relentless  in  his  efforts  to  run  the 
Gray  Seal  to  earth,  was  at  the  same  time,  though  without 
knowing  it — Jimmie  Dale's  smile  broadened — the  Gray 
Seal's  most  intimate  friend  and  old  college  pal!  If  the 
Pippin  was  just  as  surely  brought  to  book  that  way,  why 
do  old  Carruthers  and  his  sheet  out  of  a  "scoop" ! 

Jimmie  Dale  made  his  way  rapidly  now  over  to  the 
Bowery,  and  here  headed  in  an  uptown  direction.  Two 
blocks  further  along,  however,  on  the  corner  occupied  by 
the  Crescent  saloon,  he  turned  into  the  cross  street,  and 
passed  in  through  the  saloon's  side  entrance.  The  Cres- 
cent saloon,  as  he  had  previously  more  than  once  had 
occasion  to  remark,  was  nothing  if  not  thoughtful  of 
the  peculiar  needs  of  its  somewhat  questionable  class 
of  patrons.  Around  the  corner  of  the  little  passageway, 
just  as  it  turned  into  a  small  lounging  room  before  the 
barroom  proper  was  reached,  was  a  telephone  booth 
whose  privacy  could  scarcely  be  improved  upon.  He 
opened  the  door  of  the  booth,  stepped  inside,  and  closed 
the  door  carefully  and  tightly  behind  him.  The  Argus 
being  a  morning  paper,  Carruthers,  except  on  very  rare 
occasions,  was  always  to  be  found  at  his  office  until  late 
into  the  night;  but  Jimmie  Dale,  having  deposited  his 
coin  in  the  slot,  was  rewarded  with  the  information 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP  277 

that  he  had  met  with  one  of  those  "rare  occasions." 
Carruthers  was  at  his  home  on  Long  Island,  and  had 
not  been  at  the  office  at  all  that  day.  Jimmie  Dale 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  he  found  and  gave  the  Long 
Island  number.  It  did  not  matter  very  much;  it  was 
simply  the  difference  in  time,  amounting  to,  say,  the  half 
hour  or  so  that  it  would  take  Carruthers  to  get  back 
to  the  city  and  act. 

The  'phone  was  answered. 

"Mr.  Carruthers,  if  you  please  .  .  .  yes,  personally," 
said  Jimmie  Dale  pleasantly. 

There  was  a  moment's  wait,  then  Jimmie  Dale  spoke 
again — his  voice  still  pleasant,  but  changed  in  pitch  and 
register  to  a  bass  that  was  far  from  Jimmie  Dale's, 
though  one  that  Carruthers  might  possibly  remember! 

"Mr.  Carruthers?  .  .  .  Good  evening,  Mr.  Carruthers 
— this  is  the  Gray  Seal  speaking,  and  I "  A  recep- 
tive smile  stole  suddenly  across  Jimmie  Dale's  lips — 
Carruthers,  to  put  it  mildly,  was  impulsive !  "The  Gra[T 
Seal — yes.  I  can  hear  you  perfectly.  .  .  .  What?  .  .  . 
No,  it  is  not  a  hoax !" — Jimmie  Dale's  voice  had  sharp- 
ened perceptibly — "I  called  you  once  before,  you  will 
perhaps  remember  though  it  is  a  very  long  time  ago,  in 
reference  to  a  certain  diamond  necklace  and  a — you  will 
pardon  the  term — gentleman  by  the  name  of  Markel. 
.  .  .  Ah,  you  recognise  the  Gray  Seal's  voice  now,  do 
you!  .  .  .  No,  don't  apologise.  ...  I  thought  perhaps 
you  might  be  interested  in  the  possibility  of  another 
scoop.  .  .  .  Yes,  quite  so!  ...  I  would  suggest  then 
that  you  get  the  police  to  accompany  you  to  the  back 
room  of  MelinofFs,  the  old-clothes  dealer's  shop.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  thought  you  might  know  the  place.  Perhaps,  too, 
you  know  of  a  man  who  is  commonly  called  the  Pippin? 
.  .  .  No  ?  Well,  no  matter.  The  police  do !  You'll  find 
the  evidence  under  MelinofFs  body.  ...  I  beg  your  par- 


278       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

don?  .  .  .  Yes — murder.  .  .  .  What?  ...  It  is  a  cuff 
link,  the  Pippin's  cuff  link,  that  was  dropped  in  the 
struggle.  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  No,  I  do  not  know  why;  I 
have  told  you  all  I  know.  There  is  nothing  more,  Mr. 
Carruthers — except  that  I  should  advise  you  to  work 
as  quickly  as  possible,  as  otherwise  some  one  may  stum- 
ble on  the  crime  before  you  do.  Good-night,  Mr.  Car- 
ruthers." 

Carruthers  was  still  talking,  wildly,  excitedly.  Jimmic 
Dale  calmly  hung  up  the  receiver,  left  the  telephone 
booth,  and  went  out  to  the  street  again — by  the  side 
entrance.  If  Carruthers  made  inquiry  of  central  as  to 
where  the  call  had  come  from,  the  reply  that  it  was 
from  the  Crescent  saloon  would  in  no  way  serve  Car-* 
ruthers,  or  any  one  else.  No  one,  even  in  the  Crescent 
saloon,  would  be  able  to  furnish  any  information  as  to 
who  had  telephoned.  It  was,  therefore,  in  a  word,  up 
to  Carruthers  now;  the  Pippin  would  be  brought  to  ac- 
count; and  as  far  as  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  concerned 
his  connection  with  the  affair  was  at  an  end. 

Jimmie  Dale  walked  quickly  along,  turning  from  on« 
street  into  another.  Here  and  there,  in  front  of  various 
resorts,  and  on  the  corners,  he  passed  little  groups  of 
men  engaged  in  bated,  low-toned  conversation.  Or- 
dinarily this  would  have  interested  Jimmie  Dale,  for  the 
groups  were  composed,  not  of  ordinary  citizens,  but  of 
the  dregs  and  scum  of  the  underworld,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent that  something  quite  out  of  the  usual  run  of  things 
had  suddenly  seized  upon  the  Bad  Lands  as  a  subject 
for  gossip.  But  it  was  already  long  after  eleven  o'clock, 
and  to-night,  with  Melinoff's  murder  disposed  of  now, 
he  was  through,  he  hoped,  with  the  underworld  forever. 
He  was  anxious  only  to  reach  the  Sanctuary  without  any 
further  delay,  and,  thereafter,  equally  without  further 
loss  of  time,  to  get  to  his  home  or  to  the  club,  where  at 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP  279 

any  moment  he  might  expect  to  hear  from  the  Tocsin, 
and  where,  most  important  of  all,  she  would  have  no 
difficulty  in  communicating  instantly  with  him. 

He  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  on  which  the 
Sanctuary  was  situated — and  halted  abruptly.  A  man 

•  toming  rapidly  from  the  other  direction  had  grabbed  his 
Hrm. 

"  'Ello,  Smarly !"  greeted  the  other.    "Heard  de  news  ?" 

Jimmie  Dale,  with  the  top  of  his  tongue,  shifted  the 
half  burnt  section  of  the  cigarette  that  was  hanging  from 
his  upper  lip  to  the  opposite  corner  of  his  mouth,  as  he 
looked  at  the  other.  It  was  the  Wowzer,  dip  and  pick- 
pocket, the  erstwhile  pal  of  one  Dago  Jim,  who,  on  a 
certain  night,  also  of  the  very  long  ago,  that  Jimmie  Dale 
had  very  good  cause  to  remember,  had  killed  Dago  Jim 
in  a  certain  infamous  dive.  Well,  if  he,  Jimmie  Dale, 
was,  after  all,  to  learn  the  cause  of  the  excitement  that 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  possessed  the  underworld,  he 
rould  at  least  have  asked  for  no  better  or  more  thor- 
oughly posted  informant  than  the  Wowzer.  And  no~vf 
his  curiosity  was  aroused.  For  an  instant  the  idea  thai) 
it  might  be  Melinoff's  murder  flashed  across  his  mind; 
but  he  dismissed  that  idea  at  once.  Murder  was  too 
trite  a  thing  in  the  underworld  to  cause  any  widespread 
"ommotion ! 

"Hello,  Wowzer!"  he  returned,  as  he  shook  his  head. 
'No,  I  ain't  heard  anything." 

"Youse  can  take  it  from  me  den,"  said  the  Wowzer, 

*  dat  dere's  something  doin'!    Dey  got  her!" 

"Got  who  ?"  enquired  Jimmie  Dale  in  a  puzzled  way. 

The  Wowzer  leaned  forward  secretively. 

"Silver  Mag!"  he  said. 

It  seemed  to  Jimmie  Dale  as  though  the  clutch  of  an 
icy  hand  was  suddenly  at  his  heart,  as  though  the 
ground  beneath  his  feet  had  grown  suddenly  unstably 


280       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

and  that  the  Wowzer's  face,  close  to  his  own,  was 
swirling  around  and  around  in  swift  and  endless  gyra- 
tions— but  he  was  conscious,  too,  that  he  was  master  of 
himself.  The  muscles  of  his  face  twitched — but  it  was 
to  express  incredulity.  His  tongue  carried  the  cigarette 
butt  languidly  back  to  the  other  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Aw,  go  on !"  said  Jimmie  Dale.  "Try  it  on  somebody 
else!  Silver  Mag  croaked  out  the  night  they  had  that 
fire  down  there  in  the  old  tenement." 

"Yes,  she  did — nix !"  scoffed  the  Wowzer,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "De  same  way  dat  blasted  snitch  of  a  Gray  Seal 
did — eh?  Say,  Smarly,  I'm  handin'  it  to  youse  straight, 
Dey  caught  her  snoopin'  around  one  of  de  en-trays  inta 
Foo  Sen's  half  an  hour  ago.  Say,  de  whole  mob  all  dft 
way  up  de  line's  been  tipped  off.  I'm  givin'  youse  de  real 
thing.  Youse  must  have  been  asleep  somewhere,  or 
youse'd  have  been  wise  before." 

"Sure — I  believe  you!"  said  Jimmie  Dale  earnestly. 
"Who  caught  her,  Wowzer?" 

"De  Mole,"  replied  the  Wowzer.  "An*  he's  got  her 
now  over  in  his  layout." 

It  was  a  moment  before  Jimmie  Dale  spoke.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  horrible,  ghastly  dryness  in  his  mouth; 
there  seemed  to  well  up  from  his  soul  and  overwhelm 
him  a  world  of  mocking  and  sardonic  irony.  The  Mole ! 
The  Mole  was  the  leader  of  the  gang  with  which  the 
Pippin  was  allied;  it  was  at  the  Mole's  place  that  the 
Pippin  usually  lived ;  it  was  at  the  Mole's  place  that  the 
police  would  first  institute  their  search  for  the  Pippin — 
and  five  minutes  ago,  through  Carruthers,  he  had  un- 
leashed the  police!  The  Wowzer's  face  seemed  to  be 
swirling  around  and  around  in  front  of  him  again.  To 
get  away — and  think!  He  could  have  groaned,  cried  out 
aloud! 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  SHOP  281 

"Say,  thanks,  Wowzer,  for  piping  me  off !"  said  Jim- 
mie  Dale  effusively. 

"Oh,  dat's  all  right,"  responded  the  Wowzer  gracious- 
ly. "Only  keep  it  under  yer  hat  except  wid  de  crowd. 
De  kails  ain't  on,  an'  de  Mole  saw  her  first — see?  Dere 
ain't  goin'  to  be  no  buttin'  in  till  she  gets  hers !  An'  de 
word's  out  not  to  do  any  pushin'  an'  crowdin'  around  de 
Mole's  fer  front  seats,  'cause  den  de  bulls  'd  get  wise— 
savvy?  Just  leave  it  to  de  Mole — get  me?" 

"Sure — I  get  you,"  said  Jimmie  Dale.  "Well,  so  long, 
Wowzer — and  thanks  again." 

"S'long,  Smarly,"  replied  the  Wowser. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SILVER   MAG 

IT  was  not  far  to  the  Sanctuary,  only  halfway  down 
the  short  block  to  the  corner  of  the  lane;  but  it 
seemed  a  distance  interminable  to  Jimmie  Dale.  Hi£ 
brain  was  whirling  in  a  chaotic  turmoil ;  and  the  turmoil 
seemed  barbed  with  a  horrible  fear  that  robbed  him  for 
the  moment  of  his  mental  poise.  It  was  as  a  man 
dazed,  unconscious  of  the  physical  process  by  which 
he  had  arrived  there,  that  he  found  himself  standing  in 
the  Sanctuary,  leaning  like  a  man  spent  with  effort 
against  the  door  which,  mechanically,  he  had  closed 
behind  him. 

In  hideous,  baleful,  jeering  reiteration  those  words 
which  she  had  written  were  racing  through  his  brain. 
"I  am  very  happy  to-night,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  so. 
.  .  .  happy  to-night  .  .  .  happy  to-night  .  .  .  happy  to- 
night." Happy  to-night — what  depth  of  irony!  Happy 
to-night — and  they  had  caught  her — as  the  "way  was 
clearing" — with  the  end  of  peril,  with  the  end  of  the  mis- 
erable, hunted  existence  she  had  been  forced  to  lead 
just  in  sight!  Silver  Mag — the  Tocsin!  And  he — he, 
who,  too,  had  been  happy  to-night,  he,  who  had  known 
that  mighty  uplift  upon  him,  he,  who  had  dreamed  that 
the  morrow  might  bring  life  and  love  and  sunshine — he 
was  facing  now  a  blackness  of  despair  that  he  had  never 
known  before.  Unwittingly,  if  such  danger  as  she  was 
HI  could  be  made  the  greater,  he  had  made  it  so.  If  the 


SILVER  MAG  283 

underworld  was  the  implacable  enemy  of  Silver  Mag, 
because  Silver  Mag  was  known  as  the  ally  in  the  old  days 
of  Larry  the  Bat,  and  known,  therefore,  as  the  ally  of 
the  Gray  Seal;  so,  for  the  same  reason  exactly,  the 
police  were  her  implacable  enemy!  And,  whether  she 
fell  into  the  hands  of  one  or  the  other,  the  end  ulti- 
mately differed  only  in  the  method  by  which  her  death 
would  be  accomplished;  it  was  murder  at  the  hands  of 
the  Mole  and  his  gang;  it  was  the  death  chair  in  Sing 
Sing  as  an  accomplice  of  the  Gray  Seal  at  the  hands 
of  the  police.  "Death  to  the  Gray  Seal !" — that  was  the 
slogan  of  the  underworld.  "The  Gray  Seal  dead  or 
alive — but  the  Gray  Seal" — that  was  the  fiat  of  the  police. 
And  both  held  good  for  Silver  Mag!  With  the  Mole 
alone  there  might  have  been  a  chance — but  now  he  had 
launched  the  police  as  well  against  her,  had  sent  them  to 
the  Mole's,  for  that  was  the  first  place  they  would  raid 
in  their  hunt  for  the  Pippin. 

The  sweat  beads  started  out  on  Jimmie  Dale's  fore- 
head. She  had  discarded  the  character  of  "Silver  Mag" 
that  night  in  the  tenement  fire  when  he  had  discarded 
the  character  of  "Larry  the  Bat" — and  "Silver  Mag" 
had  never  been  seen  again  until  to-night.  But  he,  Jim- 
mie Dale,  had  appeared  since  then  as  Larry  the  Bat — 
and  for  some  reason  to-night  she  must  have  found  it 
necessary,  in  working  out  her  plans  to  their  consumma- 
tion no  doubt,  to  have  assumed  again  the  character  of 
Silver  Mag — and  she  had  been  caught!  But  the  Mole, 
it  was  absolutely  certain,  if  left  alone,  would  first  ex- 
haust every  means  within  his  power  of  forcing  from 
Silver  Mag  the  information  that  he  would  naturally  be- 
lieve she  had  concerning  the  whereabouts  of  the  Gray 
Seal,  before  wreaking  the  vengeance  of  the  underworld 
upon  her;  but  equally  the  Mole,  if  interrupted  by  the 
police,  would,  in  a  sort  of  barbarous  rivalry,  if  he.  Jim- 


284       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

mie  Dale,  knew  the  underworld  at  all,  never  surrender 
Silver  Mag — alive.  It  would  be  the  old  cry,  hideously 
worded,  as  he  had  heard  it  that  night  of  the  long  ago 
in  the  attack  on  the  old  Sanctuary — the  Gray  Seal  and 
Silver  Mag  were  their  "meat!"  Something  like  a  moan 
was  wrung  from  Jimmie  Dale's  lips.  With  the  police  out 
of  it  there  would  have  been  time;  with  the  police  a 
factor,  granted  even  that  the  Mole  gave  her  up,  her  death 
was  certain. 

The  mind  works  swiftly.  An  eternity  seemed  bridged 
as  he  stood  there  against  the  door,  his  hands  pressed  to 
his  temples — in  reality  scarcely  a  second  had  passed. 
Time !  It  was  like  a  clarion  call,  that  word,  clearing  his 
brain,  lashing  him  into  instant  action.  There  was  time, 
a  small,  pitifully  inadequate  margin,  but  yet  a  margin — 
the  few  minutes  left  before  Carruthers  would  have  the 
police  hammering  at  the  Mole's  door.  There  was  a 
chance,  still  a  chance  to  save  her  life.  And  if  he  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  her  away  from  the  Mole's — what  then  1 
It  would  be  touch  and  go !  What  of  the  afterwards— 
a  means  of  retreat — a  temporary  sanctuary?  Yes,  yes — 
he  must  think  of  everything ! 

He  was  working  with  mad  speed  now,  stripping  off 
his  clothes,  delving  into  that  secret  hiding  place  behind 
the  movable  section  of  the  base-board  near  the  door. 
And  now  the  gas,  with  its  poverty-stricken,  meagre,  yel- 
low flame,  illuminated  the  place  dimly — and  Jimmie  Dale, 
with  his  make-up  box  and  a  cracked  mirror,  worked 
against  the  flying  minutes.  There  was  only  one  way  to 
go — as  Larry  the  Bat.  It  would  give  the  Mole  and  the 
underworld  nothing  to  work  on  afterwards  if  Larry  the 
Bat  went  to  the  rescue  of  Silver  Mag;  and  if  he  won 
through  there  would  then  still  be  "Smarlinghue's"  sanc- 
tuary, this  place  here,  as  a  temporary  refuge.  The  trans- 
formation to  Larry  the  Bat  stole  an  extra  minute  or 


SILVER  MAG 

two  from  the  priceless  store,  but  it  was  the  only  way — • 
to  risk  it  as  Smarlinghue  or  Jimmie  Dale,  to  risk  recog- 
nition, would  be  the  act  of  a  fool,  for  it  would  render 
abortive  the  initial  success,  if,  by  any  means,  he  could 
succeed  even  to  that  extent.  Thank  God  for  the  circum- 
stances that,  prior  to  this,  had  led  him  to  duplicate 
Larry  the  Bat's  disreputable  apparel;  thank  God  for 
the  one  chance  of  life — for  her — that  this  afforded  now. 

The  gas  was  out  again,  the  room  was  in  darkness. 
Through  the  little  French  window,  and  hugged  close 
against  the  wall  of  the  tenement,  and  through  the  loose 
board  in  the  fence  that  gave  egress  to  the  lane,  Jimmie 
Dale,  as  Larry  the  Bat  now,  slunk  along.  And  then,  in 
the  lane,  he  broke  into  a  run.  And  now,  an  added  peril 
came — a  glimpse  of  Larry  the  Bat  by  any  of  gang- 
land's  fraternity,  man  or  woman,  and  it  would  be  the 
end!  His  position  now  was  analogous  to  hers  as  Silver 
Mag  before  she  had  been  caught!  There  wo  aid  be  no 
parley — it  would  be  the  end !  But  that  was  the  chance 
he  took,  the  only  chance  there  was — for  her. 

But  Jimmie  Dale  knew  the  East  Side.  By  alleys  and 
lanes,  through  yards  and  over  fences,  Jimmie  Dale  made 
his  way  along;  and  when  forced  into  the  open  to  cross  a 
street,  it  was  a  dark,  ill-lighted  section  that  was  chosen, 
and  where  for  a  short  distance  here  and  there  he  must 
needs  keep  to  the  street  he  held  deep  in  the  shadows  of 
the  buildings,  crouching  in  doorways  to  avoid  passers-by. 

It  took  time — he  dared  not  calculate  how  long.  Car- 
ruthers  was  not  the  man  to  let  the  grass  grow  under  his 
feet!  Carruthers  would  probably,  before  leaving  home, 
have  telephoned  some  Headquarters'  man  to  meet  him — 
the  detective  would  have  telephoned  Headquarters  from 
Melinoff's — and  after  that  it  would  not  take  the  police 
long  to  reach  the  Mole's ! 

It  took  time,  this  tortuous  threading  of  the  East  Side 


886       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

— he  did  not  know  how  long  it  had  taken — but  at  last, 
as  he  swung  into  a  long,  black,  and  very  narrow  alley- 
way, he  drew  a  quick  breath  of  relief.  So  far,  at  least, 
he  was  ahead  of  the  police.  It  was  still  and  silent, 
there  was  no  sound  of  any  disturbance,  and  the  Mole's 
now  was  only  a  little  way  ahead.  He  stole  forward 
noiselessly.  It  was  very  quiet — much  more  quiet  even 
than  usual  in  that  far  from  savoury  neighbourhood.  He 
remembered,  with  a  grim  smile  of  satisfaction,  that  the 
Wowzer  had  explained  there  was  to  be  no  crowding  for 
front  seats  for  fear  of  attracting  the  attention  of  the 
police.  It  had  been  very  thoughtful  of  the  Mole  to  pasr* 
that  word  around — rery!  With  the  underwood, 
prompted  by  curiosity  and  seething  with  hate,  swarming 
here,  the  single  chance  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  had  of  reach- 
ing her  would  have  been  swept  away.  He  paused  now, 
his  lips  set  hard,  crouched  by  the  fence  that  separated 
the  Mole's  backyard  from  the  alleyway.  His  plan  was 
simple;  but  it  depended  for  its  ultimate  success  almost 
entirely  on  his  ability  to  secure  an  instant  means  of  dis- 
appearance for  the  Tocsin  the  moment  she  was  outside 
the  Mole's  walls.  That  he  could  find  her,  that  he  could 
get  her  out  of  the  house  was  another  matter — he  could 
only  trust  to  his  wits  and  nerve  in  that  respect.  But  if 
he  succeeded  in  that,  then — he  moved  silently  a  little 
further  up  the  lane,  crossed  to  the  other  side  and  halted 
again,  this  time  before  the  back  door  of  a  shed.  In  an 
instant  his  picklock  was  at  work;  in  another  he  had 
opened  the  door  a  bare  fraction  of  an  inch.  His  lips 
grew  tighter,  as  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the  Mole's 
fence.  If  that  shed  were  ever  needed  at  all,  there  would 
not  be  time  to  fumble  in  the  dark  for  knob  or  latch — 
and  there  would  be  no  necessity  for  that  fumbling  now ! 
From  the  shed  there  was  a  very  sure  means  of  escape 
across  a  small  intervening  yard,  and  out  through  an 


SILVER  MAG  287 

areaway  into  the  street,  for  the  shed  was  one  of  the 
many  entrances  to  Foo  Sen's,  a  place  with  which  he 
was  very  intimately  acquainted — all  this,  of  course,  pro- 
vided that,  if  the  Tocsin  were  seen  to  enter  the  shed, 
some  one  held  the  pursuers  back  long  enough  to  afford 
her  time  to  reach  the  street. 

Jimmie  Dale  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  he  opened 
a  low  gate  in  the  fence  silently  and  stepped  through  into 
the  yard  beyond,  leaving  the  gate  open  behind  him.  He 
was  not  a  fool,  blinded  to  what  probably  lay  ahead !  He 
could  not  hope  to  reach  the  Tocsin,  much  less  effect  her 
rescue,  without  warning  the  inmates  of  this  house  that 
loomed  up  before  him  now,  without  a  fight  with  the 
Mole  and  the  Mole's  gangsters.  It  was  not  likely  that 
he  could  reach  the  shelter  of  that  shed,  but  the  Tocsin 
could,  and,  once  inside,  throwing  away  her  cloak  and 
wig,  "Silver  Mag"  would  disappear,  and  after  that  there 
was  the  Sanctuary,  and  then  her  own  brave  wits.  There 
came  a  queer  twist  to  Jimmie  Dale's  lips,  and  then  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders  again.  It  was  not  likely  to  be  the 
ending  to  the  night  that  he  had  thought  it  might  be 
when  sitting  there  in  Bristol  Bob's  only  a  few  short 
hours  ago! 

Faint  streaks  of  light  through  the  interstices  of  a  shut- 
tered window  showed  just  in  front  of  him,  as  he  stole 
forward  across  the  yard.  Window  or  back  door,  it  mat- 
tered little  to  Jimmie  Dale  now,  so  that  he  could  gain  an 
entry  into  the  house  unobserved.  It  was  very  quiet — 
even  ominously  quiet — that  impression  came  to  him  sud- 
denly again.  The  quarter  here  was  full  of  dives  and 
gambling  hells  and  resorts  frequented  by  the  worst  in 
crimeland — but  it  seemed  that  the  Mole's  injunction  had 
been  obeyed  to  the  letter!  It  boded  little  good — for 
her!  Jimmie  Dale's  face,  under  the  grime  of  Larry 
the  Bat's  make-up,  grew  white  and  set,  as  he  approached 


288       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  window.  God  in  Heaven,  was  he  already  too  late! 
The  Mole,  with  his  little  tobacco  shop  in  front  as  a  blind, 
and  his  rooms  above  rented  to  "lodgers,"  thus  housing 
the  gang  of  Apaches  that  worked  under  his  leadership, 
had  had  every  opportunity,  once  the  Tocsin  was  in  his 
power  in  there,  of  doing  as  he  would.  And  then  another 
thought  came  flashing  quick  upon  him.  If  they  had  gone 
that  far,  if  she  were  dead,  they  must  have  discovered 
that  under  the  cloak  and  the  gray,  straggling  hair  of 
Silver  Mag — was  Marie  LaSalle.  He  forced  a  grip  of 
iron  upon  himself,  fighting  mentally  like  a  madman  with 
himself  for  his  self-control.  The  night  with  every  pass- 
ing moment  seemed  yawning  wider  and  wider  before 
him  in  a  chasm  that  threatened  ruin,  and  disaster,  and 
the  wreckage  of  everything  that  in  life  was  worth  the 
living,  and — no!  Not  yet!  The  luck  had  turned!  She 
was  there!  Silver  Mag  was  there!  There!  And  safe 
so  far! 

The  window  was  shoulder  high.  He  was  peering  in 
through  the  blind.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room  it- 
self, but  a  faint  glow  came  in  through  the  open  door- 
way of  a  lighted  room  beyond — enough  to  enable  him  to 
make  out  a  woman's  form,  the  grizzled  hair  streaming 
over  the  threadbare  cloak,  as  she  lay  on  a  cheap  cot 
across  the  room,  her  face  to  the  wall,  her  hands  bound 
together  behind  her  back. 

It  was  Jimmie  Dale  working  with  all  the  art  he  knew 
now;  and  those  slim,  sensitive,  wonderful  fingers  were 
swift  and  silent  as  they  had  never  been  before.  A  steel 
jimmy  loosened  the  shutters,  and  they  swung  apart  with- 
out a  sound.  He  could  see  better  now — see,  at  least,  that 
she  was  alone  in  the  room.  He  tapped  softly  on  the 
window  pane.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  her  face,  but  he 
saw  her  raise  her  head  quickly,  and  then,  evidently,  quick 
to  meet  an  emergency  as  she  always  was,  rise  from  the 


SILVER  MAG  289 

cot  and  steal  to  the  edge  of  the  open  door.  He  was 
working  at  the  window  now.  A  fever  of  anxiety  was 
upon  him — it  seemed  that  his  fingers  stumbled,  that  they 
had  lost  their  cunning,  that  an  eternity  passed  as  she 
stood  there  apparently  on  guard  by  the  door,  her  bound 
hands  behind  her  back  like  some  piteous  appeal  to  him 
to  hurry — to  hurry — and,  in  the  name  of  all  that  life 
meant  to  both  of  them,  to  make  haste. 

And  now  cautiously,  inch  by  inch,  he  was  raising 
the  window ;  and  in  another  moment,  in  obedience  to  his 
whisper,  the  bound  wrists  were  thrust  within  his  reach, 
and  he  was  severing  the  cords  with  his  knife. 

"Thank  God !"  breathed  Jimmie  Dale  fervently. 
"Now  jump — across  the  yard — the  door  of  Foo  Sen's 
shed — it's  open — quick " 

There  came  a  sudden  crash  from  the  front  of  the 
house,  a  sudden  turmoil  from  within,  a  burst  of  shouts, 
a  chorus  of  yells.  The  police !  And  now  another  shout, 
another  burst  of  yells — from  the  rear — from  the  lane! 
Jimmie  Dale's  lips  were  like  a  thin,  straight  line.  She 
was  free  from  the  house  now,  standing  beside  him  here 
in  the  darkness.  He  reached  swiftly  up  and  closed  the 
shutters — left  open  they  invited  immediate  attention. 
His  mind  was  working  in  lightning  flashes.  The  police 
were  at  the  front  and  rear,  of'  course — they  would  not 
raid  the  front  and  leave  the  rear  unguarded !  But  why 
the  shouts  out  there  in  the  lane — why  had  they  not 
rushed  in  at  once — and  why  now  that  shot!  It  was  fol- 
lowed by  another,  and  still  another — and  then  a  fusillade 
of  them,  as  though  the  shots  were  returned. 

"Quick !"  he  whispered  again,  and  led  the  way  toward 
the  gate  in  the  fence.  The  police  would  be  pouring  out 
of  the  house  from  the  back  door  in  a  minute — the  only 
chance  was  a  dash  for  it.  His  mind  was  groping  now, 
bewildered.  What  did  it  mean?  The  police  who  had 


290       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

obviously  been  detailed  to  the  lane  at  the  rear  of  the 
Mole's  were  fighting  now — with  whom — why?  But  the 
fight  was  working  further  on  down  the  lane  in  the  op- 
posite direction  from  that  shed  door.  "Quick!"  he  said 
again.  "The  shed  door — on  the  other  side — quick!" 

Together  they  darted  into  the  lane.  From  behind,  the 
back  door  of  the  Mole's  house  was  flung  open,  and  there 
came  the  rush  of  feet.  From  down  the  lane  the  short, 
vicious  tongue-flames  of  revolvers  stabbed  through  the 
black.  But  in  the  darkness,  save  for  those  quick,  myriad 
flashes  like  gigantic  fireflies  winking  in  the  night,  he 
could  see  nothing.  They  were  racing,  racing  like  mad, 
he  and  this  form  beside  him  for  whose  safety  he  prayed 
so  wildly,  so  passionately  in  his  soul  now.  It  was  only 
a  step  further — just  another  one — and  the  police,  com- 
ing out  of  the  Mole's,  had  not  reached  the  gate  yet.  Just 
another  step — and  then  a  bullet,  straying  from  the  fight 
down  there  along  the  lane,  drummed  past  his  ear  in  an 
angry  buzz — and  the  form  beside  him  lurched  heavily, 
stumbled,  and  pitched  forward.  And,  with  a  low,  broken 
cry,  Jimmie  Dale  swung  out  a  supporting  arm,  and  push- 
ing the  shed  door  open  with  his  elbow,  gained  the  in- 
terior, and  lowered  his  burden  gently,  a  dead  weight 
now,  to  the  floor. 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  sprang  to  the  door,  and  swung 
a  heavy  bolt  that  was  there  into  place;  then,  running 
across  the  shed,  he  locked  the  other  door  as  well.  It 
was,  perhaps,  needless  precaution.  No  one  had  seen 
them  enter  here,  and  there  was  little  chance  of  the  police 
developing  any  interest  in  the  shed ;  while  from  the  other 
side — Foo  Sen's — the  fact  that  there  was  a  police  bat- 
tle in  the  lane  would  only  cause  the  inmates  of  the  dive 
to  give  the  shed  and  lane  the  widest  possible  berth ! 

It  had  taken  scarcely  a  second  to  lock  the  doors,  and 
now  he  knelt  beside  a  form  that  was  ominously  stHl 


SILVER  MAG  291 

upon  the  floor,  and  called  her  name  over  and  over  again. 

"Marie!  Marie!  Marie!"  he  whispered  frantically. 

There  was  no  answer — no  movement.  The  strong, 
steady  hands  shook,  those  marvellous  fingers,  usually  so 
deft  and  sure,  faltered  now  as  they  loosened  the  cloak 
and  threw  the  hood  back  over  the  wig  of  tangled,  mat- 
ted hair.  It  was  not  the  darkness  alone  that  would  not 
let  him  see — there  was  a  mist  and  a  blur  before  his  eyes. 
And  now  he  loosened  the  heavy  wig  itself  to  give  her 
relief — she  would  have  no  further  need  of  that,  for  it 
would  not  be  as  Silver  Mag  that  she  left  here — if  she 
left  here  at  all — no,  no! — his  mind  seemed  breaking — 
she  would  leave  here,  she  must — yes,  yes,  she  was  breath- 
ing now — she  was  not  dead — not  dead! 

He  wrenched  his  flashlight  from  his  pocket.  To  find 
the  wound  and  stop  the  flow  of  blood !  The  ray  shot 
out — there  was  a  cry  from  Jimmie  Dale — and  like  a  man 
distraught  he  reeled  to  his  feet — and  like  a  man  dis- 
traught stared  at  the  upturned  face,  ghastly  white  under 
the  flashlight's  glare. 

It  was  the  Pippin. 

The  wig  of  grizzled  hair  that  he  had  unconsciously 
been  holding  dropped  from  Jimmie  Dale's  hand,  and  his 
hand  went  upward  to  his  temple.  Was  he  mad!  Was 
this  joy,  relief,  rage  or  fury  that,  surging  upon  him, 
was  robbing  him  of  his  senses!  The  Pippin!  How- 
could  it  be  the  Pippin!  The  cloak  with  its  hood,  and 
the  long,  gray  matted  wig  were  very  like  Silver  Mag's — 
very  like  Silver  Mag's  !  The  Pippin !  The  Pippin ! — 
one-time  actor  who  had  murdered  old  Melinoff,  the  old- 
clothes  dealer!  No — he  was  not  mad !  Dimly,  his  mind 
groping  in  the  darkness,  he  began  to  see. 

The  Pippin's  eyes  opened. 

"Who's  there?"  he  demanded  weakly. 


292       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

Jimmie  Dale,  without  a  word,  leaned  forward,  and 
threw  the  ray  of  light  upon  his  own  face. 

A  queer  smile  flickered  across  the  Pippin's  lips;  his 
voice,  weak  as  it  was,  was  debonair  and  careless. 

"Well,  we  nearly  got  you,  Larry — at  that!  You  fell 
for  it,  all  right.  Only — only  some  one" — his  voice  weak- 
ened still  farther — "must  have  spilled  the  beans — to  the 
— police." 

Jimmie  Dale  made  no  answer.  His  lips  were  thinned 
and  tight  together.  It  was  plain  enough  now.  It  had 
been  a  plant  to  get  him — to  get  Larry  the  Bat,  who  was 
known  to  the  underworld  to  be  the  Gray  Seal — to  get  the 
Gray  Seal  through  an  appeal  to  the  Gray  Seal's  loyalty 
toward  his  pal,  Silver  Mag !  A  plant,  devilish  enough  in 
its  ingenuity — Silver  Mag  impersonated — the  "news"  of 
her  capture  spread  broadcast  through  the  underworld 
on  the  chance  that  it  would  reach  the  ears  of  Larry  the 
Bat,  and  tempt  Larry  the  Bat  into  the  open — as  it  had 
done !  He  knew  now  why  the  Pippin  had  gone  to  Melin- 
ofFs — old  MelinofFs  stock,  more  than  any  other  dealer's, 
would  be  the  most  likely  to  supply  the  Pippin  with  the 
garments  that,  if  not  too  closely  inspected,  would  pass 
muster  for  Silver  Mag's.  He  knew  now  why  the  under- 
world, believing  what  it  had  been  told,  had  been  warned 
Jo  keep  away  from  the  Mole's — he  knew  now  that  it 
was  because  he  was  to  have  no  inkling  that  he  was  walk- 
Ing  into  a  baited  trap. 

He  had  torn  the  Pippin's  clothing  loose,  found  the 
bullet  hole  in  the  left  side,  perilously  near  the  heart,  and 
was  striving  now  to  staunch  the  other's  wound.  The 
man  had  little  call  for  mercy,  but  at  least 

The  Pippin  pushed  his  hand  away. 

"It's  tio  use,"  said  the  Pippin.  "I'm— I'm  done  for. 
But — but  I  don't  understand.  When  you  came  to  the 
window,  I  went  to  the  door  and  tipped  them  off  that  you 


SILVER  MAG  293 

were  there,  and  the  gang  that  was  waiting  started  around 
into  the  lane  so  that  you  wouldn't  get  any  chance  to  make 
a  break  that  way.  I — I  don't  understand.  Where — • 
where  did  the  police  come  from?" 

"I  sent  them — from  Melinoff's,"  said  Jimmie  Dale 
grimly. 

The  Pippin  came  up  on  his  elbow. 

"You!"  he  gasped.  "You — you  know  what  happened 
there — you  were  wise  to  everything  all  the  time  ?" 

"No,"  said  Jimmie  Dale.  "I  only  knew  you  had  mur- 
dered Melinoff.  You  left  one  of  your  cuff  links  there." 

"Did  I  ?"  said  the  Pippin.  He  sank  back  on  the  floor 
again.  "I  didn't  know  it.  It — it  must  have  fallen  out 
of  my  shirt  when  I  undressed.  I  came  away  wearing 
women's  things,  and  carrying  my  own  clothes  in  a 
bundle."  He  laughed  shortly,  huskily.  "That's  what  was 
the  matter  with  Melinoff.  It  was  the  old  fool's  own  fault ! 
I  didn't  want  to  hurt  him !  He  didn't  understand  at  first 
when  I  was  pawing  all  his  stuff  over,  but  when  he  saw 
me  try  the  things  on,  and  tumbled  that  I  was — was  going 
to  play  Silver  Mag,  he  said  he  wouldn't  stand  for  it. 
Ha,  ha!  Silver  Mag!"  The  Pippin's  voice  had  taken 
on  a  queer  mumbling  note,  and  his  mind  seemed  to  be 
functioning  suddenly  in  a  half-wandering  way.  "Some 
role,  Silver  Mag !  I  was  the  star  to-night !  You  remem- 
ber Silver  Mag — how  she  used  to  go  around  in  the  old 
days  and  hand  out  the  silver  coins,  never  a  bill,  just  coins, 
to  the  families  whose  men  were  doing  spaces  up  the  river 
in  Sing  Sing?  She  kept  old  Melinoff's  wife  going  while 
he  was  in  limbo — that's  what  he  said.  I  didn't  want  to 
hurt  the  old  fool,  but  he  wouldn't  keep  his  mouth  shut. 
Ha,  ha!  Silver  Mag!  It  was  some  play  on  the  boards 
to-night!  Clever  brain,  the  Big  Fellow's  got!  It  wasn't 
any  good  if  Silver  Mag  and  Larry  the  Bat  were  together, 
but  Silver  Mag  was  seen  buying  a  ticket  and  getting  on  a 


294       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

train  for  Chicago  last  night — and  last  night,  later  than 
that,  the  Gray  Seal  sent  the  Forrester  stuff  to  the  police — 
so  they  couldn't  have  been  together  this  evening  unless 
he  went  afterwards  to  Chicago,  too — and  he  didn't  do 
that  because  all  the  trains  were  watched.  It  was  the 
biggest  chance  that  ever  came  across  of  getting  the  Gray 
Seal  in  a  trap.  Some  stage  setting — some  play — clever 
brain  that " 

The  voice  trailed  off.  Outside  there  was  quiet  now, 
save  for  the  crunch  of  an  occasional  footstep.  The 
police  who,  as  Jimmie  Dale  understood  quite  clearly  now, 
had  run  into  the  Mole's  gang  as  the  two  converged  at 
the  rear  of  the  Mole's  house,  had  evidently  now  got 
the  better  of  the  gangsters.  And  that  convergence,  too, 
explained  why  the  Pippin  had  accompanied  him  so 
meekly  toward  the  shed — the  Pippin's  one  aim  and  object 
at  that  moment  had  been  to  avoid  the  police !  He  leaned 
suddenly  forward  over  the  man — the  Pippin  was  going 
fast  now.  There  was  one  thing  yet,  a  thing  that  was  vital, 
paramount,  above  all  others. 

"Pippin,"  he  said  quietly,  "you're  going  out.  Who 
put  up  this  plant?  It  wasn't  the  Mole,  he's  not  big 
enough,  he's  only  a  tool  like  yourself.  Who  was  it?" 

"No — not  the  Mole,"  murmured  the  Pippin.  "He — • 
he  isn't  big  enough.  Clever  brain — clever  brain— 
clever " 

"Who  was  it?    Answer  me,  Pippin!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Pippin,  and  the  queer  smile  came  again, 
"I — I'll  tell  you.  It — it  was  some  one" — Jimmie  Dale 
could  scarcely  hear  the  words — "some  one — who  will — 
get  you  yet !" 

The  smile  was  still  on  the  Pippin's  lips — but  the  man 
was  dead.  Jimmie  Dale  stood  up  again,  and  then  Jimmie 
Dale,  too,  smiled;  but  it  was  a  grim  smile,  hard  and 
ominous.  In  his  mind  he  had  answered  his  own  question. 


SILVER  MAG  295 

It  was  that  unseen  hand  of  last  night- — only  to-night  the 
challenge  had  been  direct.  Well,  he  would  pick  up  the 
gauntlet  again — and  at  the  same  time,  perhaps,  add  a 
little  "atmosphere"  to  Carruthers'  scoop!  From  his 
pocket  came  the  thin,  metal  insignia  case;  and,  lifting 
\t  with  the  tiny  tweezers,  moistening  the  adhesive  side 
with  his  tongue,  Jimmie  Dale  stooped  down  and  fastened 
A  gray  seal  on  the  floor  by  the  Pippin's  side. 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  crept  out  of  the  shed  toward 
Foo  Sen's,  and  crept  into  the  dark  areaway,  and,  as  he 
had  come,  by  alleyways  and  lanes,  and  through  yards, 
and  by  ill-lighted,  unfrequented  streets,  returned  again 
to  the  Sanctuary — alone. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY 

IT  was  a  whimsical  movement,  a  whimsical  trick  of 
Jimmie  Dale's — that  outward  thrust  of  his  hand  that 
he  might  study  it  in  a  curiously  impersonal,  yet  merci- 
lessly critical  way.  He  laughed  a  little  harshly,  as  he 
allowed  his  hand  to  drop  again  to  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
No,  there  was  no  tremor  there — mentally  he  might  be 
near  the  breaking  point,  his  nerves  raw  and  on  edge; 
but  physically,  outwardly,  he  gave  no  sign  of  the  strain 
that,  cumulative  in  its  anxiety,  had  increased  hourly,  it 
«eemed,  in  the  three  days  that  had  passed  since  the  night 
he  had  so  narrowly  escaped  the  trap  laid  by  that  un- 
known master  criminal,  whose  cunning,  power  and 
malignant  genius  was  dominating  and  making  itself  felt 
in  every  den  and  dive  of  the  underworld,  and  for  whom 
the  Pippin  and  the  Mole  that  night  had  been  but  blind 
tools,  pawns  moved  at  the  will  of  this  unseen,  evil  strate- 
gist upon  a  chessboard  of  inhuman  deviltry. 

An  evening  newspaper  lay  open  on  the  table.  Jimmie 
Dale's  eyes  fixed  for  an  instant  on  a  glaring  headline, 
then  travelled  slowly  around  the  little  room — one  of  the 
St.  James'  Club's  private  writing  rooms — and  came  back 
to  the  paper  again.  The  failure  of  that  night,  the  Pip- 
pin's death,  the  stir  and  publicity,  the  stimulus  given 
to  police  activity,  had,  it  seemed,  in  no  way  acted  as  a 
deterrent  upon  the  sinister  ingenuity  which,  he  made  no 
doubt,  was  likewise  the  author  of  the  mysterious  crims 

296 


THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY  297 

that  to-night  was  upon  every  tongue  in  the  city — the 
murder  of  one  of  New  York's  most  prominent  bankers 
under  almost  incredible  circumstances,  and  the  coinci- 
dent disappearance  of  a  number  of  documents  which 
were  vaguely  hinted  at  as  being  of  international  impor- 
tance and  of  priceless  worth.  The  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted in  broad  daylight,  in  mid-afternoon,  in  the  bank- 
er's private  office,  and  within  call  of  the  entire  staff  of 
the  bank.  No  one  had  been  seen  either  to  enter  or  leave 
the  office  during  an  interval  of  some  fifteen  to  twenty 
minutes,  previous  to  which  time  it  had  been  established 
by  one  of  the  staff  that  the  banker  was  engaged  in  his 
usual  occupation  at  his  desk,  and  at  the  expiration  of 
which  he  had  been  discovered  by  the  cashier  lying  dead 
upon  the  floor,  his  skull  fractured  by  a  blow  that  had 
evidently  been  dealt  him  from  behind,  the  desk  in  disorder 
as  though  it  had  been  hurriedly  searched,  and  the  papers, 
known  to  have  been  in  the  banker's  possession  at  that 
time,  gone. 

Jimmie  Dale  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  in  a 
dazed  way.  No,  of  course,  he  did  not  know,  he  could 
not  actually  know  that  it  was  the  same  guiding  evil  genius 
at  work  here  that  had  murdered  both  Forrester  and  old 
Melinoff,  but  something  beyond  actual  proof,  a  sense  of 
intuition,  made  of  it  a  certainty  in  his  own  mind,  at 
least,  which  left  no  room  for  argument.  There  had  been 
viciously  clever  work  here,  as  daring  and  crafty  as  it 
was  remorseless  in  its  brutality,  and — he  laughed  sud- 
denly, harshly  as  before,  and,  rising  abruptly  from  his 
chair,  stepped  to  the  window,  pushed  aside  the  portieres, 
and  stood  staring  down  on  Fifth  Avenue,  whose  great, 
wide,  lighted  thoroughfare  seemed  a  curiously  and  in- 
congruously lonely  spot  now  in  its  evening  quiet  and 
emptiness. 

Suppose  it  was  so !    Granted  that  his  intuition  was  in 


298       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

no  way  astray!  What  did  it  matter?  It  was  a  thing 
extraneous,  of  no  personal  significance  to  him!  It  was 
even  strange  that  it  had  succeeded  in  intruding  itself 
upon  his  thoughts  at  all,  when  mind  and  soul  in  these 
last  few  days  had  fought  and  groped  and  stumbled 
against  the  sickness  of  a  fear  that,  growing  upon  him, 
had  blotted  out  all  other  things  from  his  consciousness. 
The  Tocsin!  Where  was  she?  What  had  happened? 
Had  she — no,  he  dared  not  let  himself  believe  what  a 
brutal  logic  told  him  now  he  should  believe.  He  would 
not !  He  could  not !  And  yet  since  that  night  when  her 
note  had  come,  the  note  that  had  been  so  full  of  a  glad 
spontaneity,  so  full  of  victory — "It  is  the  beginning  of  the 
end  .  .  .  The  way  is  clearing  ...  I  am  very  happy  to- 
night, and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  so" — since  that  night 
there  had  been  no  word  from  her. 

No,  that  was  not  literally  true.  There  had  been  word 
from  her ;  but,  rather  than  having  brought  hope  and  re- 
assurance to  him,  it  had  only  increased  his  fear  and 
anxiety.  That  night,  after  a  return  to  the  Sanctuary, 
where,  in  lieu  of  the  character  of  Larry  the  Bat,  he  had 
resumed  his  own  personality  again,  he  had  hurried  to  his 
home  to  await  the  expected  word  from  her  that  would 
tell  him  her  success,  which  her  note  had  indicated  was  to 
be  looked  for  at  any  moment,  had  been  achieved.  The 
night,  however,  had  brought  forth  nothing;  but  in  the 
morning,  amongst  the  mail  which  old  Jason,  his  butler, 
had  handed  him,  had  been  a  letter  from  her.  It  had  been 
written  evidently  in  leisure,  and  evidently  prior  to  the 
hurried  little  note  that  happiness,  a  surge  of  joy,  a  glad- 
ness and  a  hope  whose  share  she  could  not  hold  back 
from  him,  had  undoubtedly  prompted  her  to  write;  it 
had  been  born  out  of  impulse,  that  note,  an  impulse  due, 
apparently,  to  a  sudden  turn  in  the  brave  fight  she  was 
waging  which  seemed  to  place  the  final  victory  almost 


THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY  299 

within  her  grasp.  The  letter  was  not  at  all  like  that; 
it  struck  a  far  sterner  note — the  possibility  of  defeat — 
not  in  despair,  not  in  a  tone  of  failing  courage,  but  as  one 
who,  weighing  the  chances,  was  not  blind  to  an  opponent's 
strength,  but  who,  even  in  one's  own  defeat,  still  sought 
to  snatch  final  victory  even  after  death. 

Jimmie  Dale  turned  from  the  window,  sat  down  again 
in  his  chair,  and  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket — and, 
sitting  there,  the  strong  jaws  clamped  and  locked,  his 
face  drawn  in  rigid  lines,  the  dark,  steady  eyes  cold  and 
hard,  read  it  again,  as  he  had  read  it  many  times  before 
since  Jason  had  handed  it  to  him  that  morning  several 
days  ago : 

"Dear  Philanthropic  Crook:  I  wonder  if  I  am  writ- 
ing those  words  for  the  last  time?  I  believe  I  am.  I 
do  not  mean  I  am  in  such  danger  that  I  will  never  have 
the  opportunity  again ;  but,  rather,  that  I  will  never  have 
the  need  to  do  so.  But  to-night  should  tell.  It  is  very 
near  the  end — one  way  or  the  other — and  I  believe  it  is 
my  way.  Oh,  Jimmie,  I  pray  God  it  is,  and  that  to- 
morrow— but  I  did  not  start  this  letter  to  you  to  talk 
of  that. 

"Long  ago — do  you  remember,  Jimmie  ? — I  wrote  you 
that  I  would  not,  could  not  bring  you  into  the  shadows 
again  for  me,  and  that  I  must  fight  this  out  alone.  It 
must  be  that  way,  Jimmie;  there  is  no  other  way,  and 
what  I  am  about  to  say  must  not  lead  you  to  think  that 
I  am  hesitating  now,  or  have  changed  my  mind.  It  is 
only  this — that  the  game  is  not  won  until  the  last  card 
is  played,  and,  while  I  am  almost  certain  that  I  see  the 
way  now,  there  is  still  that  last  card  to  play.  Do  not 
let  us  mince  matters,  Jimmie.  If  I  fail,  you  know  what 
it  means.  But,  in  the  bigger  way,  Jimmie,  I  can  only 
count  for  but  very  little  in  the  balance.  There  is  the 
afterwards  that  is  of  far  more  moment — that  justice, 
swift  and  sure,  should  put  an  end  to  the  depredations 


800       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

and  the  menace  to  society  that  exists  to-day  in  the  person 
of  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  conscienceless  fiends 
that  ever  plotted  crime.  Nor,  in  case  you  should  have 
to  take  up  the  work  where  I  leave  off,  would  you  be 
even  then  obliged  to  come  into  those  shadows  again. 
It  is  very  strange,  Jimmie.  It  is  almost  like  some  grim, 
terribly  grim,  ironical  joke.  Everything,  all  the  power, 
all  the  resources  that  this  man  possesses  have  been  used 
against  me  in  the  last  few  months,  because  he  knows 
that  unless  he  accomplishes  my  death  he  must  remain  in 
hiding  just  as  he  has  forced  me  into  hiding;  and  yet 
at  the  same  time — and  this  he  does  not  know,  because  he 
does  not  know  that  he  is  known  to  you,  and  that  you,  as 
Jimmie  Dale,  a  man  whose  position  and  prominence 
would  carry  conviction  with  every  word  you  might  say, 
are  in  a  position  to  testify  against  him — with  my  death 
he  automatically  accomplishes  his  own  destruction.  And 
so  you  see,  Jimmie,  in  one  sense  at  least,  I  cannot  fail! 
No,  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  lightly — I — I  have  as  much 
as  you,  Jimmie — to  live  for. 

"Listen,  then !  We  knew,  you  and  I,  that  while  both 
my  supposed  uncle  and  the  head  of  the  Crime  Club  were 
killed  that  night  of  the  old  Sanctuary  fire,  and  that  the 
greater  number,  almost  all  in  fact,  of  the  members  of 
the  band  were  caught  by  the  police,  that  a  few  of  them 
still  evaded  the  trap  and  escaped.  But  we  believed  these 
were  so  few  in  number  and  were  so  thoroughly  disorgan- 
ised that  nothing  more  was  to  be  feared  from  them.  And 
this  in  a  very  great  measure  is  true;  but  it  is  not  alto- 
gether true.  No,  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  that  the 
Crime  Club  rose  from  its  ashes  and  is  in  operation  again ; 
but  one  of  the  men  who  escaped  that  night,  one  of  the 
Club's  leaders,  possessed  evidently  of  the  secret  as  to 
where  the  Club's  surplus  funds  were  hidden,  is  the  man 
who,  through  a  lavish  use  of  those  funds,  is  operating 
now  through  the  underworld,  who  is  responsible  for 
Forrester's  murder,  and  is  the  man  who  through  all  these 
months  has  sought  to  reach  me.  I  referred  to  him  as 
'one  of  the  leaders' — I  believe  him  now  to  have  been  the 


THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY  301 

most  dangerous  of  them  all.  You  know  him  as — Clarke. 
Do  you  remember,  Jimmie?  He  was  the  man  who  so 
cleverly  impersonated  Travers  as  the  chauffeur,  after 
they  had  killed  Travers.  He  was  the  man  who  was  at 
the  house  that  night  when  Travers  first  learned  that  my 
father  and  my  uncle  had  been  murdered,  and  that  the 
same  fate  was  in  store  for  me.  I  told  you  that  from 
where  he  sat  in  the  room  that  night  I  could  not  see  his 
face,  that  Travers  told  me  who  he  was — but,  apart  from 
not  being  able  to  recognise  him  on  that  particular 
occasion,  I  knew  him  well,  for  he  had  been  a  frequent 
visitor  to  the  house  even  prior  to  my  father's  death,  and 
subsequently  in  company  with  Travers  as  one  who  ap- 
peared to  have  struck  up  an  intimacy  with  my  supposed 
uncle. 

"The  day  after  the  Crime  Club  was  raided  by  the 
police,  you  will  remember  that  Clarke  not  being  amongst 
those  caught,  I  gave  the  authorities  what  particulars  I 
could  in  reference  to  the  man.  But  nothing  came  of  it. 
A  description  and  the  name  of  'Clarke'  was  little  enough 
to  work  on.  The  man  had  disappeared.  Time  passed, 
and  I  supposed,  as  no  doubt  you,  as  well,  supposed,  that 
Clarice  had  made  good  his  escape,  that  he  was  probably 
well  content  with  such  good  fortune,  and  that  nothing 
more,  if  he  could  help  it,  would  ever  be  heard  of  him. 
Jimmie,  I  was  wrong.  Within  a  month  a  series  of  nar- 
row escapes  from  accidents,  any  one  of  which  might 
easily  have  accomplished  my  death,  seemed  to  follow  me 
persistently.  I  will  not  take  the  time  now  to  enumerate 
them  all — they  were  so  commonplace,  so  liable  to  happen 
to  any  one,  such  for  instance  as  escaping  by  a  hair's- 
breadth  from  being  run  down  by  a  speeding  car  swerving 
around  the  corner  as  I  started  to  cross  the  street,  or  again 
by  an  iron  tackle  falling  from  a  scaffolding  where  work 
was  in  progress  on  the  building  in  which,  pending  the 
remodelling  of  my  own  house,  as  you  know,  I  had  taken 
an  apartment,  that  at  first  I  attached  no  ulterior  signifi- 
cance to  them.  But  finally,  as  they  persisted,  I  became 
convinced  that  they  were  deliberate  and  premeditated 


802       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

attempts  upon  my  life.  I  said  nothing  to  you,  as  I  did 
not  wish  to  alarm  you.  And  then  one  night  Clarke 
showed  himself. 

"Do  you  remember  the  colourless  liquid,  the  poison 
instantaneous  in  its  action  and  defying  detection  by 
autopsy,  which  was  so  favourite  a  method  of  murder 
with  the  Crime  Club?  I  had  expected  to  be  out  for  the 
evening,  and  had  given  the  maids  permission  to  go  out 
together.  It  was  about  halfpast  eight  when  I  left  the 
apartment.  I  had  only  gone  a  few  blocks  when  I  returned 
for  something  I  had  forgotten.  I  was  in  my  bedroom 
when  I  heard  the  hall  door  open  stealthily.  I  switched 
off  the  bedroom  light  instantly,  and  slipped  into  the 
clothes  closet,  leaving  the  door  just  ajar.  I  knew,  of 
course,  that  if  it  were  another  attack  directed  against  me, 
it  was  one  that  was  prearranged  and  that  was  being  made 
on  the  presumption  that  I  was  out  and  that  the  apartment 
was  empty.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or  two, 
then  a  step  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  bedroom,  and 
the  light  went  on.  It  was  Clarke.  There  was  a  little 
night  table  beside  the  bed  on  which  my  maid,  before  she 
had  gone  out,  had  placed  as  usual  a  carafe  of  ice  water 
and  a  small  tray  of  biscuits.  Clarke  was  evidently  very 
well  acquainted  with  this  fact.  He  stepped  at  once  to 
the  table,  took  a  vial  from  his  pocket,  poured  the  con- 
tents into  the  carafe — and  the  next  instant  the  room  was 
in  darkness  again,  and  Clarke  was  gone.  I  acted  as 
quickly  as  I  could.  I  dared  not  move  or  give  any  sign 
of  my  presence  until  he  was  out  of  the  apartment,  for  I 
would  have  accomplished  nothing  except  my  death.  But 
the  minute  the  outer  door  closed  I  picked  up  the  telephone 
to  communicate  with  the  vestibule.  It  was  a  ground- 
floor  apartment,  as  you  know.  The  one  chance  was  to 
have  the  hall  porter  intercept  Clarke  in  the  vestibule. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  telephone  was  not  answered 
for  fully  a  minute  or  so — too  late,  of  course!  Clarke 
had  vanished.  The  boy  at  the  telephone  desk  said  he 


THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY 

had  been  busy  with  another  call.  That  is  all,  Jimmie. 
I  saw  clearly  that  night  that  there  was  only  one  thing 
left  for  me  to  do  if  I  hoped  to  save  my  life,  and  that 
was  to  fight  Clarke  with  his  own  weapons.  And  so  I 
wrote  you ;  and  you  know  now  why  Marie  LaSalle  'left 
the  city  for  an  extended  trip,'  as  her  bankers  informed 
you,  and  why  during  all  these  months  I  have  'disap- 
peared.' 

"I  come  now  to  the  last  thing  I  have  to  say — the 
reason  for  writing  this  letter.  My  death  was  essential 
to  Clarke,  because  he  believed  that  I  was  the  only  one 
who  could  positively  identify  him  as  'Clarke/  and  that, 
therefore,  as  long  as  I  lived  he  could  not  resume  his  own 
identity  and  personal  freedom  of  action  for  fear  that  I 
might,  even  if  only  through  inadvertence,  recognise  him. 
He  could  take  no  chances.  But  I  believe  I  have  beaten 
Clarke.  I  have  discovered  that  'Clarke'  is  in  reality  Peter 
Marre,  the  shyster  lawyer,  better  known  among  his  clien- 
tele as  Wizard  Marre.  But  Marre,  too,  has  disappeared — 
you  understand,  Jimmie  ?  And  now,  hidden,  under  cover, 
never  showing  himself  personally,  'Clarke'  is  working, 
not  only  to  reach  me,  but  to  further  all  his  other  schemes, 
through  some  agency  without  appearing  himself  either 
as  Marre  or  as  'Clarke.'  I  believe  it  is  only  a  matter 
of  a  few  hours  now  before  I  shall  either  have  got  to  the 
bottom  of  who  and  what  this  agency  is,  or  else — again 
do  not  let  us  mince  matters,  Jimmie — 'Clarke*  will  have 
been  too  much  for  me.  And  in  that  latter  case  is  found 
the  whole  object  of  this  letter.  Once  I  am  removed 
from  his  path,  and  believing  that  no  one  else  could,  or 
would,  link  'Clarke'  and  Peter  Marre  together,  he  will 
naturally  resume  the  freedom  of  his  former  life,  and 
Peter  Marre  will  appear  again  in  his  old-time  sur- 
roundings, a  Peter  Marre  unhampered  by  fear  of 
discovery,  and  therefore  a  Peter  Marre  a  hundredfold 
more  dangerous  than  ever  before.  And  so,  Jimmie,  if 
that  should  happen,  you  have  simply  to  get  this  infor- 
mation into  the  hands  of  the  police  without  appearing 
yourself,  say,  through  the  agency  of  the  Gray  Seal — 


304.       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

and  I  shall  not  have  brought  you  into  the  shadows  again." 

The  letter  was  signed  simply — "Marie."  But  there 
was  a  postscript: 

"You  will  hear  from  me  the  moment  that  I  can  tell 
you  I  am  free  at  last." 

Jimmie  Dale  sat  staring  at  the  postscript.  He  made  no 
movement;  and  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room,  save 
that  the  sheets  of  paper  crackled  slightly  in  his  hand. 
He  was  afraid  to-night,  afraid  as  he  had  never  been  in 
his  life  before;  and  the  fear  that  was  gnawing  at  his 
heart  was  mirrored  in  a  gray,  rigid  face,  and  in  the 
misery  that  had  crept  into  the  dark,  half-closed  eyes.  It 
was  three  days  ago  since  he  had  received  that  letter,  and 
the  awaited,  promised  word  had  not  come — three  days, 
and  the  letter  stated  that  it  would  be  but  a  matter  of  a  few 
hours  before  the  decision  that  meant  life  or  death  was 
reached.  And  the  hurried  little  note,  so  obviously  written 
subsequent  to  the  letter,  though  2t  had  been  received  prior 
to  it,  but  bore  out  in  its  very  optimism  the  fact  that  the 
final  card  was  then  almost  in  the  very  act  of  being  played. 
And  since  then — there  had  been  nothing. 

He  put  little  faith  in  the  Pippin's  belief  that  she  had 
gone  to  Chicago.  He  found  no  relief  in  that  possibility 
at  all.  That  they  had  seen  her  buy  a  ticket  and  board  a 
train — yes.  That  for  her  own  ends  she  had  let  them  see 
her  do  that — yes.  But  whether  she  had  ever  gone  or  not 
was  quite  a  different  matter !  Her  letter  would  certainly 
indicate  that  she  had  not.  But  even  if  she  had!  She 
could  have  communicated  with  him  from  Chicago  just  as 
easily  as  she  could  have  communicated  with  him  from 
any  place  here  in  New  York ! 

Jimmie  Dale's  hand  lifted  and  pressed  hard  against  his 
temple,  as  though  to  still  the  dull,  constant  throbbing 
that  brought  to  his  mental  agony  the  added  torment  of 


THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY  305 

physical  pain.  For  these  three  days  now  he  had  fought 
with  mind  and  body  and  soul  against  the  one  conclusion 
that  was  tenable — the  conclusion  which  to-night,  robbing 
him  of  every  hope  in  life,  bringing  a  grief  and  anguish 
greater  than  he  could  bear,  cold  logic  was  finally  forcing 
him  to  accept.  She  would  have  known  the  torment  of 
anxiety  in  which  he  lived,  and  if  her  plans  had  only  been 
delayed  or  checked,  if  it  had  been  no  more  than  that,  she 
would  surely  have  communicated  with  him  and  allayed 
his  fears. 

A  low  sound,  a  moan  of  bitter  pain,  came  from  Jimmie 
Dale's  lips.  Logic  had  won  at  last,  and  was  triumphant 
in  the  blackest  hour  that  had  ever  come  into  his  life. 
The  one  glimmer  of  hope  to  which,  as  time  went  on  and 
one  by  one  other  hopes  had  vanished,  he  had  still  clung 
tenaciously,  had  surrendered,  too,  and  gone  down  before 
the  face  of  that  brutal  logic  that  weighed  neither  human 
agony  nor  suffering  in  its  remorseless  conclusions. 
Clarke,  it  was  true,  had  not  yet  resumed  his  former  life 
as  Peter  Marre — but  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  forced  to 
admit  now  that  that  meant  little  or  nothing.  A  thousand 
and  one  reasons  might  account  for  Clarke  postponing  his 
re-entry  into  his  old  life — that  the  man  had  allowed  three 
days  to  pass  proved  nothing. 

Marre !  Peter  Marre !  Wizard  Marre !  A  smile  that 
held  no  mirth  hovered  for  an  instant  over  Jimmie  Dale's 
lips.  Yes,  he  knew  Marre,  Marre  of  the  underworld, 
well !  The  man  was  brilliant,  clever — and  possessed  of  a 
devil's  soul !  Also  Marre,  as  certainly  no  other  man  had 
ever  held  it,  held  the  confidence  of  crimeland — and  crime- 
land  had  supplied  the  tricky  lawyer  with  his  clientele. 
And  so  Marre  was  "Clarke,"  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
old  Crime  Club!  Jimmie  Dale's  smile  disappeared,  and 
his  lips  drew  straight  and  tight  together.  It  was  quite 
easily  understood  now.  The  returns  in  a  financial  sense 


S06       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

from  such  a  clientele,  large  even  as  they  perhaps  might 
be,  were  meagre  and  pitiful  in  comparison  with  the  huge 
sums  which,  in  one  way  and  another,  the  Crime  Club 
would  have  acquired;  but  the  returns  in  another  sense 
had  been  vast  and  of  incalculable  value,  not  only  to 
Clarke,  but  to  the  Crime  Club  as  well.  Clarke's  power 
in  the  underworld  as  Marre  had  reached  the  height  where 
the  underworld  itself  eulogised  that  power  by  bestowing 
on  the  man  the  "moniker"  of  Wizard,  investing  him,  as 
it  were,  with  a  title  and  a  peerage  in  that  inglorious  realm. 
And  this  power,  supplying  a  foreknowledge  of  events 
through  intimacy  with  those  whispered  secrets  in  the 
innermost  circles  of  the  citizenry  of  crimeland,  must  have 
been  of  immeasurable  worth.  And  now  Clarke,  hidden 
away  somewhere,  acting,  it  appeared,  through  some  un- 
known agency  and  go-between,  was  utilising  that  powet 
with  deadly  cunning  and  effect — not  only  against  the 
Tocsin,  but  against  society  at  large,  as  witness  the  murder 
of  Forrester  of  a  few  days  ago,  and  presumably  the 
murder  of  Jathan  Lane,  the  banker,  not  longer  ago  than 
this  afternoon. 

Jimmie  Dale  shook  his  head  suddenly.  Acting  through 
some  unknown  agency?  The  Tocsin  had  not  said  that. 
Indeed,  if  she  had  been  as  near  to  the  final  move  in  this 
battle  of  wits  which  she  had  been  playing  for  months,  as 
her  letter  indicated,  she  must  have  known  by  now  who 
and  what  and  where  that  agency  was.  And  he  could 
see  plainly  enough  why  she  had  kept  her  own  counsel 
in  that  respect.  It  was  through  her  great,  unselfish  love 
for  him  that  she  had  intentionally  refrained  from  giving 
him  any  clue  that  would  enable  him  to  find  his  way 
into  the  danger  zone  which  she  reserved  for  herself 
alone.  Yes,  he  understood  that — but  it  only  made  what 
he  feared  now  the  harder  to  bear.  She  had  been  right,  of 
course,  in  her  conclusion  as  to  what  he  would  have  done 


THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY  307 

had  she  given  him  the  opportunity !  It  was  the  one  thing 
he  had  been  fighting  for,  struggling  for,  battling  for  all 
these  months,  that  clue — and  she  had  told  him  only  that 
"Clarke"  was  behind  it  all,  and  that  "Clarke"  was  Petef 
Marre.  And  it  had  served  him  little!  As  though  the 
earth  had  opened  and  swallowed  the  man  and  his  alias 
up,  there  was  neither  trace  nor  sign  of  Peter  Marre. 

He  knew  that  well !  He  had  not  been  idle  since  that 
letter  came !  He  had  instantly  seized  upon  what  he  had 
hoped  would  prove  the  clue  that  he  could  follow  to  the 
heart  of  the  web — and  the  clue  had  led  him  nowhere. 
Marre,  like  the  Tocsin,  was  somewhere  "on  a  trip." 
Marre's  office  was  not  closed.  A  year  ago  Marre  had 
taken  in  with  him  as  partner  a  young  lawyer  by  the  name 
of  Cleaver,  who  lacked  only,  through  experience,  the 
same  degree  of  dishonest  finesse  and  cunning  possessed 
by  Marre  himself — a  defect  which  Marre  had  doubtless 
counted  on  speedily  rectifying  under  his  own  unholy 
tutelage!  Cleaver  was  carrying  on  the  business.  To 
all  inquiries  Cleaver's  replies  had  been  the  same — Mr. 
Marre,  through  overwork,  had  been  obliged  to  take  a 
rest ;  he  did  not  know  where  Mr.  Marre  was  other  than 
that  Mr.  Marre  was  making  an  extended  tour  through 
the  Orient,  nor  did  he  know  when  Mr.  Marre  might  be 
expected  to  return ;  Mr.  Marre,  purposely,  in  order  that 
he  might  escape  all  thought  and  care  of  business,  and 
to  preclude  the  possibility  of  anything  of  that  nature 
reaching  him,  had  refrained  from  giving  the  office  any 
specific  address.  But  he,  Jimmk  Dale,  had  not  been 
content  with  inquiries  alone  in  those  last  few  days—- 
though the  result  here  again  had  been  nothing.  He  was 
satisfied  only  that,  in  so  far  as  the  main  issue  was  con- 
cerned, Cleaver  was  not  in  Marre's  confidence,  and 
that  Cleaver  not  only  did  not  know  Marre's  exact  where- 


808       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

abouts,  but  believed,  as  he  had  said,  that  Marre  was 
travelling  somewhere  in  the  Orient. 

Jimmie  Dale  drew  his  hand  heavily  again  across  his 
forehead.  It  seemed  as  though  the  very  act  of  sitting 
here  was  a  traitorous  act  to  her,  that  even  in  this  mo- 
mentary inaction  he  had  cause  for  bitter  self-reproach 
and  even  for  contempt — and  yet  he  could  see  no  way  now 
to  take.  In  the  last  three  days,  as  Smarlinghue,  as  Jim- 
mie Dale,  yes,  even  as  Larry  the  Bat  again,  working  with 
feverish  intensity,  with  almost  sleepless  continuity,  he 
had  exhausted  every  means  and  effort  within  his  power 
of  running  Marre,  alias  Clarke,  to  earth.  There  seemed 
nothing  now  left  to  do  but  to  wait  until  Marre  should  re- 
sume his  own  identity ;  nothing  left  but  the  promise  of  a 
vengeance  that — again  Jimmie  Dale  laughed  harshly,  and, 
as  the  laugh  died  away,  a  smile  took  its  place  on  the 
thinned  lips  that  was  not  good  to  see.  Yes,  she  was  right 
in  that ;  he  knew  Marre — he  knew  Marre,  with  his  thin, 
cruel  face,  his  black,  sleepy  eyes ;  his  suave,  ingratiating 
manner  that  hid  under  its  veneer  a  devil's  treachery! 
Nor,  well  as  he  knew  the  man,  was  it  strange  that  he 
had  not  known  Qarke  as  Peter  Marre,  for  he  had 
seen  Qarke  only  once — that  night  in  the  long  ago,  in 
Spider  Jack's  when  the  man,  with  consummate  art,  a 
master  of  disguise,  had  impersonated  Travers,  the  dead 
chauffeur,  and  had  succeeded  in  fooling  even  Spider 
Jack  himself.  But  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  knew  now.  Yes, 
she  had  been  right — a  whiteness  came  and  gathered  on 
his  lips — in  that  sense  she  could  not  fail,  Marre  at  least 
would  pay!  But  perhaps  not  quite  as  she  suggested, 
perhaps  not  quite  by  the  simple  act  of  a  denunciation  to 
the  police,  perhaps  not  quite  in  so  simple  a  way  as  that, 
for,  after  all — his  hand  clenched  over  the  sheets  of  her  let* 
ter — though  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  establish  Marre's 
alias  now  that  the  alias  was  known,  there  might  be  an- 


THE  TOCSIN'S  STORY  309 

another  way  in  which  Marre  would  answer,  a  more  inti- 
mate way,  a  more  personal  way !  Not  murder — the  skin 
was  ivory  white  across  his  knuckles — not  murder, 
but 

Jimmie  Dale  was  quietly  folding  the  sheets  of  paper 
in  his  hand.  Some  one  was  knocking  at  the  door. 

"Come  in!"  said  Jimmie  Dale — and  slipped  the  letter' 
back  into  his  pocket,  as  the  door  opened. 

It  was  one  of  the  club's  attendants. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Dale,  sir,"  said  the  man ;  "but  there 
is  a  'phone  call  for  you."  He  glanced  toward  the  tele- 
phone on  the  table.  "I  was  not  sure  just  where  you  were, 
sir.  Shall  I  ask  them  to  connect  you  here?" 

"Thank  you!"  said  Jimmie  pleasantly.  "Very  good, 
Masters.  No — I'll  attend  to  it  myself." 

The  man  withdrew,  and  closed  the  door  again.  Jim- 
mie Dale  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  stepping  to  the  table, 
picked  up  the  instrument. 

"There  is  a  call  for  me,  I  believe,"  he  said.  "This  is 
Mr.  Dale." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Jimmie  Dale  spoke 
Ugain. 

"Yes— hello!"  he  said.  "Yes,  this  is  Mr.  Dale. 
What " 

The  room  seemed  suddenly  to  swirl  about  him — the 
fiand  so  steady  a  few  moments  ago  was  trembling  pal- 
pably now  as  it  held  the  instrument.  Her  voice?  No- 
ne was  mad!  It  was  his  brain,  overwrought,  strained, 
not  to  the  breaking  point,  but  beyond,  that  had  broken  at 
last,  and  was  mocking  at  him  now  in  some  cruel  phan- 
tasy. Her  voice  ?  No,  it  could  not  be,  for  she — for  she 
was 

"Jimmie !  Jimmie !" — the  voice  came  hurriedly  again, 
almost  frantically  this  time.  "Jimmie — are  you  there?" 

"You !"    His  lips  were  dry,  he  moistened  them  with  his 


810       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

tongue.  "You !"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "You,  Marie— 
and  I  thought — I  thought  that  you  were " 

"Jimmie,"  she  broke  in,  a  quick,  wistful  catch  hi  her 
voice,  "I  cannot  stay  here  a  moment — you  understand, 
don't  you  ?  There  is  not  an  instant  to  lose — on  the  floor 
by  the  Sanctuary  window — a  note — will  you  hurry,  Jim- 
jnie — good-bye." 

She  was  gone.  Mechanically  he  replaced  the  receiver 
on  the  hook.  She  was  gone — but  it  was  her  voice  he  had 
heard — hers — and  she  was  alive.  The  play  of  emotion 
upon  him  robbed  him  for  the  moment  of  coherent 
thought,  and  came  and  swept  over  him  in  a  mighty  surge 
and  engulfed  him ;  and  now  in  the  sudden  revulsion  from 
despair  and  the  bitterest  of  agony  his  mind  was  dazed 
and  numbed.  It  seemed  as  though  he  were  obeying  some 
subconscious  power,  as  he  turned  and  left  the  room;  as 
though  some  influence  outside  of,  and  extraneous  tcs 
himself  gave  him  a  spurious  self-mastery,  a  self-com- 
mand, a  mask  of  nonchalance,  as  he  walked  calmly 
through  the  club  lobby  and  out  to  the  street. 

Benson,  his  chauffeur,  held  the  door  of  his  car  open 
for  him. 

"Where  to,  sir?"  Benson  asked. 

"The  Palace — Bowery/'  Jimmie  Dale  answered.  "And 
hurry,  Benson!" 


CHAPTER 

HUNCHBACK  JOE 

JMMIE  DALE  flung  himself  back  on  the  seat  of  the 
big  touring  car.  It  was  an  address,  the  Palace  Saloon 
on  the  Bowery,  that  he  had  often  given  Benson  before—- 
the nearest  point  to  which  Benson,  trusted  as  Benson 
was,  had  ever  been  permitted  to  approach  the  Sanctuary 
itself.  The  night  air,  the  sweep  of  the  wind  was  grateful, 
as  the  machine  sped  forward.  He  did  not  reason,  he 
could  not  reason — his  mind  was  in  turmoil  still.  Only 
two  things  were  clear,  distinct,  rising  dominant  out  of 
that  turmoil — that  he  had  heard  her  voice,  her  voice  that 
he  had  never  thought  to  hear  again;  and  that  there  was 
need,  a  desperate  need  for  haste  now,  because  he  must 
reach  the  Sanctuary  without  an  instant's  loss  of  time. 

And  then  gradually  his  brain  began  to  clear,  to  adjust 
itself,  to  function  normally;  and  when  finally  the  car 
drew  up  at  a  corner  on  the  Bowery,  it  was  a  Jimmie  Dale, 
keen,  self-possessed  and  alert,  who  sprang  briskly  to  the 
pavement. 

"Will  you  need  me  any  further,  sir?"  Benson  asked 

Jimmie  Dale  was  lighting  a  cigarette  deliberately — it 
was  the  same  question  that  he  was  pondering  in  his  own 
mind,  but  the  answer  was  dependent  upon  the  contents 
of  that  note  which  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  Sanctuary. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure,  Benson,"  he  replied.  "In  any 
case,  you  had  better  wait  here  for  twenty  minutes.  If 
I  am  not  back  in  that  time,  you  may  go  home.  Don'* 
wait  any  longer." 

311 


312       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"Very  good,  sir,"  Benson  answered. 

It  was  only  a  short  distance  to  the  Sanctuary — down 
the  cross  street,  a  turn  into  another  only  to  emerge  again 
on  one  that  paralleled  the  first,  and  then  Jimmie  Dale, 
walking  slowly  now,  was  sauntering  along  an  ill-lighted 
thoroughfare  flanked  on  either  side  with  a  miscellany  of 
small  shops  and  tenements  of  the  cheaper  class.  There 
were  but  few  pedestrians  in  sight;  but,  as  he  neared  the 
tenement  that  made  the  corner  of  the  lane  ahead,  Jimmie 
Dale's  pace  became  still  more  leisurely.  A  man  and  a 
woman  were  strolling  up  the  street  toward  him.  They 
passed.  Jimmie  Dale,  at  the  corner  of  the  lane  now, 
glanced  behind  him.  The  two  were  self-absorbed.  And 
then,  like  a  shadow  merging  with  the  darkness  of  the  lane, 
Jimmie  Dale  had  disappeared. 

In  an  instant,  he  had  gained  the  loose  board  in  the  high 
fence;  and  in  another,  pressing  close  to  the  rear  wall  of 
the  tenement,  he  had  reached  the  little  French  window 
that  gave  on  the  dingy  courtyard.  There  was  an  almost 
inaudible  sound,  a  faint  metallic  snip,  as,  kneeling,  his 
fingers  loosened  the  hidden  catch  beneath  the  sill — and 
the  window  on  well-oiled  hinges  swung  silently  inward, 
and  closed  as  silently  again  behind  Jimmie  Dale  as  he 
entered. 

The  top-light,  high  up  near  the  ceiling,  threw  a  misty 
ray  of  moonlight  along  the  greasy,  threadbare  carpetf 
and  threw  into  relief  a  folded  piece  of  dark-coloured 
paper  at  Jimmie  Dale's  feet.  He  stooped  and  picked  it 
up— and  then  moving  close  to  the  window  again,  his 
fingers,  in  the  darkness,  felt  over  the  dilapidated  roller 
shade  to  assure  himself  that  the  rents  were  securely 
pinned  together  against  the  possibility  of  prying  eyes. 
He  stepped  quickly  then  across  the  room,  tested  the  door 
lock;  and  then  the  single  gas-jet,  air-choked,  hissing 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  313 

spitefully,  illuminated  the  room  with  a  wavering  meagre 
yellow  flame. 

Under  the  light,  Jimmie  Dale  unfolded  the  paper,  his 
face  hardening  suddenly.  It  was  not  like  any  note  she 
had  ever  written  him  before — there  v/as  no  white  envel- 
ope here,  no  paper  of  fine  and  delicate  texture,  no  ink- 
written  message  carefully  penned;  instead,  evidence 
enough  of  her  desperate  haste,  the  desperate  circum- 
stances probably  under  which  she  had  written  it,  the  mes- 
sage was  on  a  torn  piece  of  brown  wrapping  paper,  and 
the  words,  in  pencil,  were  scrawled  in  hurried,  broken 
sentences.  And  standing  there,  fighting  for  a  grip  upon 
himself,  Jimmie  Dale  read  the  message — almost  illegible 
in  places — and  then,  as  though  a  strange  incredulity,  a 
strange  inability  to  grasp  and  understand  its  import  fully, 
were  prompting  him,  he  read  it  again,  murmuring 
snatches  of  it  aloud. 

"...  I  did  not  mean  to  bring  you  into  the  shadows 
.  .  but  there  is  another  life,  not  mine,  at  stake  ...  I 
have  no  right  to  do  anything  else  ...  if  I  intervened, 
or  gave  warning,  the  evidence  that  will  convict  Clarke's 
tgent,  and  will  convict  Clarke  through  the  agent,  is  lost 
.  .  that  is  why,  in  spite  of  all,  I  am  writing  this  ...  do 
vou  understand?  .  .  .  for  three  nights  he  disappeared, 
and  somehow,  I  do  not  yet  know  how,  evaded  me  in 
the  daytime  ...  no  trace,  just  as  I  believed  I  had  the 
man  through  whom  Clarke  is  working  trapped  .  .  . 
dared  not  take  the  chance  of  giving  up  watch  for  an 
instant  .  .  .  did  not  know  about  this  afternoon  until  an 
hour  ago  .  .  .  too  late  .  .  .  Jathan  Lane's  murder  at  the 
bank  .  .  .  Klanner,  the  janitor  of  the  bank  .  .  .  very 
fair  hair,  scar  on  left  cheek  bone  .  .  .  worked  at  night 
e  .  .  under  passage  from  private  office  .  .  .  blackjack 
with  which  murder  was  done,  document  and  money  in 
Klanner's  room  .  .  .  unmarried  .  .  .  lives  in  rear  room, 
first  floor  of  tenement  at  ...  you  must  get  the  evidence 


314.       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

i  ...  unto  Caesar!  .  .  ship  chandler's  store,  junk  shop 
.  .  .  Larens,  Joe  Larens,  the  hunchback  .  .  .  Clarke's 
agent  .  .  .  another  murder  to  cover  up  their  tracks  .  .  „ 
must  get  Clarke  through  Hunchback  Joe  .  .  .  will  squeal 
if  he  sees  no  way  of  escape  .  .  .  Klanner's  room  at 
once  .  .  .  Klanner  with  Kid  Greer  will  be  at  Baldy 
Jack's  at  ten  o'clock  .  .  .  will  stop  at  nothing  .  .  .  inno- 
cent bystander  .  .  .  document  of  international  impor^ 
tance  .  .  .  gold  and  details  .  .  .  Federal  authorities,  not 
the  police  .  .  .  will  see  that  Secret  Service  men  get  tip 
where  to  raid  at  midnight  .  .  .  under  the  sail  cloth  in 
left  corner  .  .  ." 

Jimmie  Dale  was  tearing  the  paper  into  little  shreds. 
His  brain,  eagerly  now,  was  leaping  from  premise  to  con- 
clusion, fitting  the  strange,  complex  parts  of  her  story^ 
seemingly  so  utterly  at  variance  one  with  another,  into  & 
single,  concrete  whole.  Yes,  he  understood  why,  in  spite 
of  herself,  she  had  been  forced  to  bring  him  within  those 
shadows  at  the  last — to  save  another's  life,  which  she 
could  not  do  alone  without  forfeiting  the  opportunity  of 
securing  the  evidence  that  would  condemn  those  actually 
guilty,  and  reach,  through  the  lesser  lights,  the  man 
higher  up— Marre,  alias  Clarke.  Yes,  he  understood,  too, 
that  this  was  the  end — if  all  went  well!  A  grim  smile 
came  and  flickered  across  Jimmie  Dale's  lips.  She  be- 
lieved that  Hunchback  Joe,  if  caught  and  trapped,  would 
squeal  to  the  police.  The  grim  smile  deepened.  Hunch- 
back Joe  might,  or  might  not,  squeal  to  the  police — but 
in  any  case  Hunchback  Joe  would  tell  his  story!  He, 
Jimmie  Dale,  would  see  to  that — whatever  the  cost,  what- 
ever the  consequences,  if  he  had  to  choke  and  wring  it 
from  the  man's  lips.  It  was  a  surer  way  than  trusting  to 
the  police — it  was  the  only  sure  way  of  reaching  the  end. 
The  cost !  The  risk !  What  did  it  matter  ?  What  was 
cost,  or  risk!  Her  life  was  in  the  balance! 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  315 

He  glanced  quickly  around  him.  Would  it  be  as 
Smarlinghue  to-night?  He  shook  his  head.  No,  if  it 
were  really  the  -end,  if  he  won  through  to-night,  this 
would  be  the  last  time  he  would  ever  stand  here  in  the 
Sanctuary,  and  to  leave  the  clothes  of  Jimmie  Dale  here, 
even  in  so  secure  a  hiding  place  as  behind  that  movable 
section  of  the  base-board,  would  impose  upon  him  the 
necessity  of  returning — was  but  to  hamper  himself,  and, 
indeed,  as  likely  as  not,  if  hard  pressed,  to  court  disaster. 

His  glance,  strangely  whimsical,  strangely  wistful  now, 
travelled  again  over  the  room.  If  it  was  the  end  to-night, 
this  was  his  good-by  to  Smarlinghue,  to  Larry  the  Bat — 
and  the  Gray  Seal.  This  was  his  exit  from  the  sordid 
stage  of  the  underworld — forever.  Yes,  in  time,  sus- 
picious of  Smarlinghue's  continued  absence,  they  would 
investigate  and  search  the  Sanctuary  here;  they  might 
even  discover  that  hiding  place  in  the  wall — but  what  did 
it  matter?  They  would  find  only  the  trappings  of  a 
character  that  had  passed  out  of  existence;  and  out  of 
that  fact  the  police  and  the  underworld  would  be  privi- 
leged to  make  what  capital  they  could!  No,  it  would 
not  be  as  Smarlinghue  that  he  would  work  to-night — he 
was  well  enough  as  he  was.  He  had  not  worn  evening 
clothes  since  that  letter  came,  for  the  nights  had  been 
spent  in  constant  toil,  and  the  dark  suit  of  tweeds  he  wore 
now  was  not  conspicuous.  Nor  need  he  even  have  re- 
course to  that  hiding  place  again — what  he  required  was 
already  in  his  pockets — for  days  now,  in  whatever  role  he 
had  played,  he  had  been  prepared  for  any  emergency. 

Jimmie  Dale  looked  at  his  watch — it  was  ten  minutes 
after  nine — and,  reaching  up,  turned  out  the  light.  A 
minute  more  and  the  French  window  was  silently  opened 
and  closed  again,  and  Jimmie  Dale  was  once  more  on  the 
street.  Here,  walking  quickly,  but  keeping  to  the  less 
frequented  streets,  he  headed  deeper  into  the  East  Side. 


816       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

He  would  have  no  need  of  Benson,  and  Benson  without 
further  ado  at  the  expiration  of  the  allotted  twenty 
minutes  would  obey  orders  literally  and  go  home.  No, 
he  would  have  no  further  need  of  Benson  and  the  car — 
Jimmie  Dale  smiled  curiously,  his  mind  absorbed  now 
in  the  immediate  problem  that  confronted  him — they 
worked  on  a  carefully  prepared  and  methodical  schedule, 
these  minions  of  Clarke  or  Marre,  allowing  ample  time 
in  each  successive  step  in  their  plans  that  there  might  be 
neither  confusion  nor  mistake  in  what  they  did.  Well, 
jvhat  was  ample  time  for  them,  was  ample  time  for  him ! 
[t  was  not  far  from  the  tenement  where  the  Tocsin  had 
said  Klanner  lived  to  Baldy  Jack's — and  Klanner  was 
not  due  at  Baldy  Jack's  until  ten  o'clock. 

Under  the  slouch  hat,  pulled  far  down  over  his  eyes, 
Jimmie  Dale's  brows  knitted  into  a  frown.  It  was  true 
then,  and  his  intuition  had  not  been  at  fault!  It  was 
Clarke  who  had  planned  the  murder  and  robbery  at  the 
bank  that  afternoon — and  Hunchback  Joe,  Clarke's  famil- 
iar, and  his  accomplices  who  had  carried  it  out.  Yes,  it 
had  been  clever  enough — but  difficult  enough  too !  Yet  of 
two  alternatives  they  had  chosen  the  easiest.  The  docu- 
ment, containing  the  secret  international  arrangements  for 
gold  shipments  into  the  United  States,  embracing  Euro- 
pean commitments,  and  including  transportation  details^ 
was  always,  except  when  in  the  banker's  personal  posses- 
sion, carefully  locked  away  in  the  bank's  vaults.  In  the 
daytime  then,  it  was  impossible  for  a  stranger  to  reach 
those  vaults;  and  at  night  time  to  attempt  to  force  the 
strongest  vaults  in  the  City  of  New  York,  with  their  intri- 
cate electric-alarm  system,  was  a  task  from,  which  even 
Clarke  might  shrink ! 

The  Tocsin  had  made  it  very  clear.  The  document, 
or  documents,  never  left  the  bank's  premises;  it  never 
left  the  bank's  vaults  except  when  in  the  possession  of 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  817 

the  bank's  president  in  the  latter's  private  office.  Clarke 
had  therefore  chosen  the  line  of  least  resistance — the 
bank  president's  office!  And  that  accounted,  he,  Jimmie 
Dale,  understood  now,  for  the  sudden  failure  of  the  Toc- 
sin's plans  three  nights  ago,  since  it  accounted  evidently 
for  the  sudden  disappearance  of  Hunchback  Joe,  which 
had  checkmated  her  on  that  night  and  on  subsequent 
nights — for  it  had  taken  those  three  nights  to  perfect  their 
plans  in  the  bank,  and  the  work  there  had  evidently  been 
done  under  the  personal  supervision  of  Hunchback  Joe. 
The  plan's  cleverness  and  cunning  lay  in  its  devilish 
simplicity — it  required  only  long,  painstaking  and  labo« 
rious  preparation.  There  were,  according  to  the  news- 
papers, two  entrances  to  the  banker's  private  office;  the 
customers'  entrance  from  the  main  rotunda  of  the  bank, 
and  a  rear  entrance  leading  in  behind  the  cages  to  the 
working  quarters  of  the  staff,  which  was  separated  from 
the  general  offices  by  a  short,  narrow,  enclosed  passage 
with  a  second  door  at  the  extreme  end.  The  president's 
office,  as  befitted  his  position,  was  richly  furnished,  and 
the  passage,  being  in  reality  but  an  adjunct  to  the  office 
itself,  had  not  been  overlooked — it  was  carpeted  with  a 
long  Persian  rug.  That  portion  of  the  basement  directly 
beneath  the  president's  office  and  the  passage  had  been 
partitioned  off  into  a  storeroom  for  old  files  and  books, 
and  was  consequently  rarely  visited.  For  the  rest,  the 
method  was  fairly  obvious.  The  storeroom  was  ceiled 
jn  with  wood,  which,  when  carefully  cut  away,  could  be 
replaced  during  the  daytime,  and  so  hide  all  traces  of 
what  was  going  on  should  any  one  enter  the  place.  It 
required,  then,  simply  a  certain  number  of  nights'  work — 
and  it  had  taken  three.  An  opening  had  been  cut  through 
the  flooring  into  the  passage,  and  the  surface  flooring  of 
the  passage  over  the  aperture  refitted  into  place,  so  that, 


318       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

covered  by  the  rug,  there  was  no  indication  that  anything 
was  wrong. 

The  minor  details  the  Tocsin  had  passed  over — but  to 
supply  them  required  but  little  effort  of  the  imagination. 
The  president  customarily  devoted  a  certain  amount  of 
time  each  afternoon  to  the  matter  in  question,  and  im- 
mediately on  his  return  from  lunch  always  took  the 
papers  from  the  vault  and  carried  them  to  his  private 
office.  It  became,  then,  simply  necessary  that  the  man, 
or  men,  hiding  in  the  basement  should  know  when  the 
president  was  alone;  but  this  would  hardly  be  a  very 
difficult  matter,  for,  with  nothing  but  the  upper  skin  of 
the  flooring  left,  one  had  only  to  post  himself  in  the  open- 
ing and  he  could  hear  as  well,  almost,  as  though  he  were 
in  the  private  office  itself.  The  entrance  could  then  be 
effected  in  the  security  of  the  little  passage ;  the  rear  door 
of  the  passage  would  be  silently  locked  against  interrup- 
tion; the  door  leading  into  the  president's  office,  where 
the  president  sat  with  his  back  to  the  door,  would  be 
silently  opened — then  a  quick  leap,  soundless  on  the  heavy 
carpet — the  blow  of  a  blackjack — the  limp  body  caught 
and  lowered  to  the  floor — the  documents  secured — the 
escape. 

The  escape!  Jimmie  Dale  had  turned  suddenly  into 
a  pitch-black  areaway,  and,  cautiously  now,  was  making 
his  way  to  the  rear  of  a  three-story  tenement  of  the 
poorer  class.  The  escape  had  naturally  been  accom- 
plished in  exactly  the  same  way — the  rear  door  unlocked 
again  to  obviate  any  immediate  attention  being  paid  to 
the  passage — the  murderer  lowering  himself  through  the 
aperture,  and,  as  he  replaced  the  flooring,  manipulating 
the  rug  so  that  it  would  drop  innocently  back  into  place — 
and  the  exit  from  the  basement  would  of  course  already 
have  been  provided  for.  Jimmie  Dale's  face  was  hard. 
,The  newspapers,  going  to  press  almost  at  the  moment  the 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  319 

murder  was  discovered,  though  giving  a  general  descrip- 
tion of  the  bank's  premises,  had  had  no  opportunity  to 
furnish  details  of  the  ensuing  police  investigation;  but; 
that  the  police  would  eventually  discover  the  hole  in  the 
flooring  was  obvious;  that  they  would  also  discover  it 
without  much  delay  was  equally  obvious — and  it  had  been 
intended  that  they  should.  Qarke's  object,  acting  through 
Hunchback  Joe,  had  been  to  provide  only  for  the  im- 
mediate escape — and  after  that,  with  callous  deviltry, 
he  proposed  to  utilise  this  very  means  of  escape  to  cover 
up  the  tracks  of  the  tools  who  were  doing  his  work,  and, 
backed  with  another  murder,  to  put  the  crime  upon  an- 
other's shoulders! 

Jimmie  Dale  had  halted  now  to  survey  his  surround- 
ings, and,  his  eyes  grown  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  he 
could  make  out  a  door  opening  on  the  small  yard  in  which 
he  stood,  and  to  the  right  of  the  door  an  unlighted  and 
closed  window.  That  was  Klanner's  window.  He  did 
not  know  Klanner,  the  bank's  janitor — except  that  he 
knew  him  as  an  innocent  man,  as  the  proposed  victim 
of  as  foul  and  black  and  pitiless  a  conspiracy  as  had 
ever  been  hatched  in  a  human  brain !  Nor  did  he  know 
Hunchback  Joe — save  by  reputation.  The  man  was  a 
comparative  newcomer  in  the  underworld.  He  had 
bought  out  a  small  ship-chandler's  business,  a  rickety, 
out-at-the-heels  place  on  an  equally  rickety  old  wharf 
on  the  East  River;  and  it  was  generally  understood  that 
he  was  a  "fence"  of  a  sort,  making  a  speciality  of,  and 
catering  to,  a  certain  extensive  and  vicious  class  of 
thieves,  the  wharf  rats,  who  infested  the  city's  shipping — • 
his  ostensible  business  of  a  ship-chandler  enabling  him  to 
handle  and  dispose  of  that  class  of  stolen  property  with 
comparative  immunity. 

Jimmie  Dale  was  crouching  at  the  door,  a  little  steel 
picklock  in  his  fingers.  It  was  fairly  evident  now  that 


320       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  underworld  in  general  had  but  an  extremely  super- 
ficial acquaintance  with  Hunchback  Joe ;  that  Hunchback 
Joe's  minor  depredations  against  the  law  were  but  a 
cloak  to — the  mental  soliloquy  ended  abruptly.  Jimmie 
Dale  drew  suddenly  back  from  the  door,  and,  retreating 
along  the  wall  of  the  building,  crouched  down  in  the 
darkness  beneath  the  window.  What  was  that?  It  came 
again — a  step,  stealthy,  cautious,  from  the  areaway — 
and  now  another  step — there  were  two  men  there. 

The  picklock  was  back  in  his  pocket,  and,  in  its  place, 
his  fingers  closed  around  the  stock  of  his  automatic.  A 
shadow  showed  around  the  corner  of  the  building,  a 
queer,  twisted,  misshapen  shadow — it  was  followed  by 
another.  Jimmie  Dale  drew  in  his  breath  softly.  Hunch- 
back Joe !  He  had  rather  expected  that  the  man  would 
already  have  come  and  gone,  that  this  initial  act  of  the 
brutal  drama  staged  for  the  night's  work  would  already 
have  been  performed.  Well,  it  did  not  matter!  There 
was  still  time — time  to  wait  while  Hunchback  Joe  did 
his  work  here,  time  in  turn  to  do  his  own  and  still  reach 
Baldy  Jack's  before  ten  o'clock. 

From  somewhere  in  the  distance  came  the  roar  and 
rattle  of  an  elevated  train;  from  a  neighbouring  tene- 
ment came  the  strains  of  a  wheezy  phonograph.  The 
figures  were  at  the  rear  door  of  the  tenement  now.  A 
minute  passed;  the  door  opened,  closed,  the  two  figures 
had  disappeared — and  then,  in  a  flash,  Jimmie  Dale  had 
straightened  up,  and  a  steel  jimmy  was  working  with 
deft,  silent  speed  at  the  window  sash.  He  had  the  time 
it  would  take  Hunchback  Joe  to  reach  and  open  Klan- 
ner's  door  from  the  hall  inside — no  more.  And  if  he 
could  watch  Hunchback  Joe  at  work  it  would  simplify 
to  a  very  large  extent  his  own  task  when  Hunchback  Joe 
was  through;  there  would  be  no  necessity  for  a  search, 
and — ah!  The  window  gave.  He  raised  it  noiselessly^ 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  321 

reached  inside  arid  pulled  down  the  roller  shade  to  within 
an  inch  of  the  sill,  and  pulled  the  window  down  again  to 
a  little  below  the  level  of  the  shade.  The  opening  left 
was  unnoticeable — but  he  could  now  both  see  and  hear. 

There  came  a  faint  sound  from  within — the  creak  of  a 
slowly  opening  door,  a  step  across  the  floor,  then  the 
flare  of  a  match,  and  the  light  in  the  room  went  on. 

Jimmie  Dale  was  drawn  back  now  against  the  wall  at 
one  corner  of  the  window,  his  eyes  on  a  level  with  the 
sill.  He  had  made  no  mistake  about  that  misshapen, 
twisted  shadow — it  was  Hunchback  Joe.  Jimmie  Dale's 
eyes  travelled  to  the  hunchback's  companion — and  nar- 
rowed as  he  recognised  the  other.  The  man  was  well 
enough  known  in  the  underworld,  a  hanger-on  for  the 
most  part,  a  confirmed  hop-fighter,  though  when  not  under 
the  influence  of  the  drug  he  was  counted  one  of  the  clev- 
erest second-story  workers  and  lock-pickers  in  the  Bad 
Lands — Hoppy  Meggs,  they  called  him.  Again  Jimmie 
Dale's  eyes  shifted — to  Hunchback  Joe  once  more.  Like 
some  abnormal  and  repulsive  toad  the  man  looked.  His 
shoulders  were  thrust  upward  until  they  seemed  to  merge 
with  the  head  itself,  the  body  was  crooked  and  bent  for- 
ward, due  to  the  ugly  deformity  of  the  man's  back,  while 
the  face  was  carried  at  an  upward  tilt,  as  though  tardily  to 
rectify  the  curvature  of  the  spine,  and  out  of  the  sinister, 
bearded  face,  the  beard  tawny  and  ill-kempt,  little  black 
eyes  from  under  protruding  brows  blinked  ceaselessly. 

A  sudden  fury,  an  anger  hot  and  passionate  seized 
upon  Jimmie  Dale;  and  there  came  an  impulse  almost 
overpowering  to  play  another  role,  a  deadlier,  grimmer 
role  than  that  of  spectator!  A  toad,  he  had  called  the 
man.  He  was  wrong — the  man  was  a  devil  in  human 
guise.  He  crushed  back  the  impulse,  a  cold  smile  on  his 
lips.  He  could  afford  to  wait!  It  was  not  time  yet. 
There  was  still  the  game  to  play  out.  He  would  have  an 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

opportunity  to  give  full  sway  to  impulse  before  the  night 
was  out,  before  the  Tocsin  should  have  set  the  Secret 
Service  men  upon  the  other's  trail — before  midnight 
came. 

Hunchback  Joe  was  speaking  now. 

"Go  on,  Hoppy ;  get  busy!"  he  ordered  sharply,  jerking 
his  hand  toward  a  trunk  that  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
cheap  iron  bedstead.  "Get  that  opened.  Hurry  up! 
And  see  that  you  don't  leave  any  scratches  on  it,  or— » 
you  understand !"  He  leaned  forward,  leering  with  sud- 
den savagery  at  his  companion. 

Hoppy  Meggs  moved  forward,  dropped  on  his  knees 
in  front  of  the  trunk,  examined  the  lock  for  an  instant — 
and  grunted  in  contempt. 

"Aw,  it's  a  cinch !  Say,  I  could  do  it  wid  a  hairpin !" 
he  grinned — and  a  moment  later  threw  back  the  lid. 

Hunchback  Joe  drew  a  short,  ugly  blackjack,  a  packet 
of  papers,  and  a  large  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket,  and 
tossed  the  articles  into  the  trunk. 

"Lock  it  again!"  he  instructed  tersely. 

Hoppy  Meggs  hesitated — he  was  staring  into  the  trunk. 

"Say,  youse  don't  mean  dat — do  youse  ?"  he  demanded 
heavily.  "Not  dem  papers  dat " 

Hunchback  Joe's  smile  was  not  pleasant. 

"Lock  the  trunk !"  he  said  curtly.  And  then,  as  Hoppy 
Meggs  closed  down  the  lid :  "I  didn't  bring  you  here  to 
offer  any  advice ;  but  as  I  don't  want  you  to  labour  under 
the  impression  that,  not  having  any  brains  of  your  own, 
there  aren't,  therefore,  any  brains  at  all  to  stand  between 
you  and  the  police,  I'll  tell  you.  If  they  recover  the 
original  document,  besides  fixing  the  crime  on  Klanner, 
they'll  figure  they've  got  it  back  before  any  harm  has 
been  done,  and  before  it  has  been  passed  on  to  whoever 
had  paid  down  the  little  cash  advance  to  Klanner  for 
the  job  in  the  shape  of  that  roll  there — eh?  And  figuring 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  323 

that  wa}>-  they  won't  change  any  of  the  plans  or  details  as 
they  stand  now  in  those  papers — eh  ?  And  meanwhile  a 
copy  is  just  as  good  to  the  man  who  is  coughing  up  to  you 
and  me  and  the  rest  of  us  for  this,  isn't  it?" 

"My  Gawd !"  said  Hoppy  Meggs  in  fervent  admiration, 
as  he  locked  the  trunk. 

"Yes,"  said  Hunchback  Joe — and  the  snarl  was  back 
in  his  voice.  "And  now  you  see  to  it  that  you've  got  the 
rest  of  what  you've  got  to  do  straight.  It  won't  pay 
you  to  make  any  mistakes !  Let  the  Mole's  crowd  start 
something  before  you  pull  the  lights — it's  got  to  look  like 
a  drunken  row  where  the  bystander,  with  nobody  but 
himself  to  blame  for  being  in  such  a  place  as  that,  acci- 
dentally gets  his!  And  you  tip  the  Kid  off  again  to 
leave  Klanner  by  his  lonesome  at  the  table  before  the 
trouble  starts,  or  he'll  get  in  bad  himself.  The  Kid  can 
pull  a  fake  play  to  make  up  with  some  moll  across  the 
room.  Klanner's  no  friend  of  his,  he  never  saw  the  man 
before — you  understand? — just  ran  into  him  outside  the 
dance  hall,  if  any  questions  are  asked.  But  I  don't  want 
any  questions,  and  there  won't  be  any  if  he  plays  his 
hand  right.  Tell  him  I  said  his  job's  over  once  he  has 
Klanner  inside — and  to  stand  from  under.  Get  me  ?" 

"Sure!"  said  Hoppy  Meggs. 

"Well,  we'll  beat  it,  then,"  snapped  Hunchback  Joe. 

The  room  was  in  darkness  again.  Jimmie  Dale 
crouched  further  back  along  the  wall.  The  rear  door 
opened,  two  shadows  emerged,  passed  around  the  cor- 
ner of  the  tenement — and  disappeared. 

The  minutes  passed,  five  of  them,  and  then  Jimmie 
Dale,  too,  was  making  his  way  softly  along  the  areaway 
to  the  street — but  in  Jimmie  Dale's  pockets  were  the  short 
leaden  blackjack,  ugly  for  the  stain  on  its  leathern  cover- 
ing, the  packet  of  papers,  and  the  roll  of  banknotes  that 
had  been  in  Klanner's  trunk.  He  gained  the  street, 


ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

paused  under5  the  nearest  street  lamp  to  consult  his  watch, 
and  swung  briskly  along  again.  It  was  a  matter  of  only 
two  blocks  to  Baldy  Jack's,  one  of  the  most  infamous 
dance  halls  in  the  Bad  Lands,  but  it  was  already  ten 
minutes  to  ten. 

And  now  a  curious  metamorphosis  came  to  Jimmie 
Dale's  appearance.  The  neat,  well-fitting  Fifth  Avenue 
tweeds  did  not  fit  quite  so  perfectly — the  coat  bunched 
a  little  at  the  shoulders,  the  trousers  were  drawn  a  little 
higher  until  they  lost  their  "set."  His  hat  was  pulled 
still  farther  over  his  eyes,  but  at  a  more  rakish  angle, 
and  his  tie,  tucked  into  his  shirt  bosom  just  below  the 
collar,  exposed  blatantly  a  diamond  shirt  stud.  But  on 
Jimmie  Dale's  lips  there  was  an  ominous  smile  not  wholly 
in  keeping  with  the  somewhat  jaunty  swagger  he  had 
assumed,  and  the  lines  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were 
drawn  down  hard  and  sharp.  It  was  miserable  work,  the 
work  of  a  hound  and  cur !  Who,  better  than  the  janitor 
of  the  bank,  would  have  had  the  opportunity  to  carry 
on  that  work  there !  And  so  they  had  selected  Klanner 
as  their  victim.  But  Klanner,  if  allowed  to  talk,  might 
be  able  to  defend  himself — therefore  Klanner  would  not 
be  allowed  to  talk.  There  was  only  one  way  to  prevent 
that  effectively — by  killing  Klanner.  But,  again,  Klan- 
ner's  death  must  not  appear  in  any  way  to  be  consequent 
to  the  murder  at  the  bank — therefore  it  was  to  bear  every 
evidence  of  having  been  purely  inadvertent,  and,  in  a 
way,  an  accident.  Yes,  it  was  crafty  enough,  hideous 
enough  to  be  fully  worthy  even  of  the  fiendish  brain  that 
had  planned  it!  Kid  Greer,  having  probably  struck  up 
an  acquaintance  with  Klanner  during  the  past  few  days, 
had  inveigled  Klanner  to-night  into  Baldy  Jack's,  osten- 
sibly, no  doubt,  for  an  innocent  and  casual  glass  of  beer, 
and  in  a  general  row  and  melee  in  the  dance  hall — not  an 
uncommon  occurrence  in  a  place  like  Baldy  Jack's — • 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  325 

Klanner  would  be  shot  and  killed.  The  rest  was  obvious. 
The  man's  effects  would  naturally  be  examined,  and  the 
evidence  of  his  "guilt"  found  in  his  trunk.  It  was  an 
open  and  shut  game  against  a  dead  man !  Even  his  pre- 
vious good  record  would  smash  on  the  rock  of  a  pre- 
sumed double  life.  The  fact  that  Klanner  had  volun- 
tarily been  in  a  place  like  Baldy  Jack's  was  damning  in 
itself ! 

Jimmie  Dale,  approaching  the  garishly  lighted  exterior 
of  the  dance  hall  now,  lit  a  cigarette.  The  plan,  if  suc- 
cessful, placed  the  guilt  without  question  or  cavil  upon 
Klanner,  but  that  was  not  all — strong  as  that  motive 
might  be,  Clarke  had  had  still  another  in  view,  and  one 
that  perhaps  took  precedence  over  the  first.  Hunchback 
Joe  had  defined  it  clearly  enough.  The  documents  would 
have  been  valueless  to  Clarke,  either  to  sell,  or  to  put 
to  any  use  himself,  if  the  plans  and  arrangements  they 
contained  were  subsequently  altered  or  changed.  But  it 
was  obvious  that  a  man  in  Klanner's  station  could  have 
no  personal  interest  in  them ;  it  was  obvious,  as  evidenced 
by  the  money,  that  he  was  working  for  some  one  else,  and 
therefore  the  documents  appearing  in  his  trunk  would 
logically  appear  to  have  been  recovered  before  he  had 
been  able  to  hand  them  over  to  his  principal,  and  before 
any  vital  harm  had  been  done  that  would  necessitate  any 
change  m  the  details  they  contained. 

Jimmie  Dale  pushed  the  door  of  the  dance  hall  open, 
and  stepped  nonchalantly  inside.  It  was  the  usual  scene, 
there  was  the  usual  hilarious  uproar,  the  usual  close, 
almost  fetid  atmosphere  that  mingled  the  odours  of  stale 
beer  and  tobacco.  Baldy  Jack's  was  always  popular,  and 
the  place,  even  for  that  early  hour,  was  already  doing  a 
thriving  business.  Jimmie  Dale's  eyes,  from  a  dozen 
couples  swirling  in  the  throes  of  the  bunny-hug  on  the 
polished  section  of  the  floor  in  the  centre  of  the  hall. 


326       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

strayed  over  the  little  tables  that  were  ranged  three  antf 
four  deep  around  the  walls.  At  the  upper  end  of  the 
room  a  man,  fair-haired  and  neatly  dressed,  though  his 
clothes  were  evidently  not  those  of  one  in  over-affluent 
circumstances,  sat  alone  at  one  of  the  tables.  It  might, 
or  might  not,  be  Klanner.  Jimmie  Dale  strolled  forward 
up  the  hall,  and,  as  though  deliberating  over  his  selec- 
tion of  a  seat,  paused  by  the  table.  The  man  looked  up. 
There  was  a  long,  jagged  scar  on  the  other's  right  cheek 
bone.  It  was  Klanner.  Jimmie  Dale  pulled  out  a  chair 
at  a  vacant  table  directly  behind  the  other,  and  sat  down, 
A  waiter,  in  beer-spotted  apron  and  balancing  a  dripping 
tray,  came  for  his  order. 

"Suds!"  said  Jimmie  Dale  laconically. 

Again  Jimmie  Dale's  eyes  made  a  circuit  of  the  place, 
failed  to  identify  the  person  of  one  Kid  Greer,  and,  giv^ 
ing  up  the  attempt,  rested  speculatively  instead  on  Klan- 
tier's  back.  Yes,  he  could  quite  fully  understand  why 
the  Tocsin  could  not  have  warned  Klanner  to  beware, 
for  instance,  of  Kid  Greer.  Such  a  warning,  apart  from 
keeping  Hunchback  Joe  from  planting  the  evidence, 
would  even  have  defeated  its  own  end — for,  even  to  save 
Klanner,  the  game  had  to  be  played  out  as  Hunchback 
Joe  had  planned  it.  They  meant  to  "get"  Klanner,  and 
if  not  here  at  Baldy  Jack's,  then  somewhere  else.  She 
knew  what  they  meant  to  do  here — she  might  not  know 
when,  or  how,  or  where  they  would  make  the  attempt  if 
they  had  been  forced  to  change  their  plans. 

Jimmie  Dale  tossed  a  coin  on  the  table,  as  the  waiter 
set  down  a  glass  of  beer  in  front  of  him — and  then,  over 
the  top  of  the  glass,  Jimmie  Dale  resumed  his  scrutiny  of 
the  hall.  Directly  behind  him  was  a  back  entrance  that 
opened  on  a  lane  at  the  rear  of  the  building ;  and  between 
himself  and  the  entrance  was  only  one  table,  which  was 
unoccupied.  Jimmie  Dale,  playing  with  his  match  box, 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  327 

as  he  lighted  another  cigarette,  dropped  the  box,  stooped 
to  pick  it  up — and  drew  his  chair  unostentatiously  nearer 
to  Klanner. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  now,  time  that — yes,  the  game  was 
on — now!  A  man,  that  he  recognised  as  one  of  the 
Mole's  gunmen,  had  dropped  into  a  seat  a  couple  of 
tables  away  from  Klanner,  where  there  was  a  clear  space 
between  the  two  men.  There  was  a  sudden  jostling 
among  the  dancers  on  the  floor — then  an  oath,  rising  high 
above  the  riot  of  talk  and  laughter — a  swirl  of  figures — 
a  medley  of  shouts  and  women's  screams,  drowning  out 
the  squeak  of  the  musicians'  violins  and  the  thump  of 
the  tinny  piano. 

Jimmie  Dale's  jaws  locked  hard  together.  There  was 
a  struggling,  furious  mob  at  the  lower  end  of  the  hall — 
but  his  eyes  now  never  left  the  gunman  two  tables  away. 
Klanner,  in  dazed  amazement,  had  half  risen  from  his 
seat,  as  though  uncertain  what  to  do.  The  screams, 
shouts,  oaths  and  yells  grew  louder — came  the  roar  of  a 
revolver  shot — another — pandemonium  was  reigning  now. 
It  seemed  an  hour,  a  great  period  of  time  since  the  first 
shout  had  rung  through  the  hall — it  had  been  but  a  mat- 
ter of  seconds.  Jimmie  Dale  was  crouched  a  little  for- 
ward in  his  chair  now,  tense,  motionless.  What  was 
holding  Hoppy  Meggs!  This  was  Hoppy  Meggs'  cue, 
wasn't  it  ? — those  shots  there,  aimed  at  the  floor,  had  only 
been  to  create  the  panic — there  was  to  be  another  shot 
that 

The  hall  was  in  sudden  darkness.  With  a  spring, 
quick  on  the  instant,  Jimmie  Dale  was  upon  Klanner's 
back,  hurling  the  man  to  the  floor.  The  tongue-flame  of 
a  revolver  split  the  black  over  his  head;  there  was  the 
deafening  roar  of  a  revolver  shot  almost  in  his  ears  that 
blotted  out  for  an  instant  all  other  sounds — and  then 
came  the  shouts  and  cries  again  in  an  access  of  terror — > 


328       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

and  now  the  rush  of  feet — a  blind  stampede  in  the  dark- 
ness for  the  exits.  Another  shot  from  the  gunman,  as 
though  to  make  his  work  doubly  sure,  followed  the  first — 
but  now  some  of  the  fear-stricken  crowd  had  come  be- 
tween them,  plunging,  falling,  tripping  over  tabks  and 
chairs,  seeking  the  rear  exit. 

"Quick !"  Jimmie  Dale  breathed  in  Klanner's  ear.  He 
was  half  lifting,  half  dragging  the  man  along.  "Quick- — 
get  your  feet,  man!" 

There  was  a  surging  mob  around  them  now,  pushing, 
fighting  madly  to  reach  the  door;  and,  as  Klanner  re- 
gained his  feet,  they  were  both  swept  forward,  and,  lung- 
ing through  the  door,  were  precipitated  out  into  the  lane. 
And  here,  wary  of  a  riot  call  that  had  probably  already 
been  rung  in  by  the  patrolman  on  the  beat,  the  crowd 
was  taking  to  its  heels  and  dispersing  in  both  directions 
along  the  lane. 

"Quick !"  said  Jimmie  Dale  again — and,  with  his  hand 
on  Klanner's  arm,  broke  into  a  run. 

Those  running  in  the  same  direction  turned  off  from 
the  lane  at  the  first  cross  street;  but  Jimmie  Dale  held 
to  the  lane,  and  it  was  three  blocks  away  from  Baldy 
Jack's  before  he  stopped. 

Klanner  was  panting  from  his  exertions. 

"My  God — what's  it  mean !"  he  gasped.  "I — I  thought 
I  saw  a  revolver  in  that  man's  hand,  the  fellow  next  to 
me,  just  as  the  lights  went  out." 

"You  probably  did,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  grimly. 

"Well — what's  it  mean  ?"  repeated  Klanner  heavily. 

It  was  a  moment  before  Jimmie  Dale  answered.  For 
the  man's  own  sake,  the  less  that  Klanner  knew  the  better, 
probably — and  yet  the  man  must  be  kept  out  of  harm's 
way  for  the  rest  of  the  night.  Having  failed  at  Baldy 
Jack's,  it  was  certain,  since  Clarke's  whole  plan  hinged 
on  Klanner's  death,  that  they  would  try  again.  After  to- 


HUNCHBACK  JOE  329 

night — if  all  went  well — it  did  not  matter,  foi  Klanner 
then  would  be  no  longer  a  factor  to  Clarke  or  Hunchback 
Joe! 

"It  means,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  gravely,  "that  there's 
been  some  sort  of  a  gangster's  fight  pulled  off,  and  that 
probably  there's  been  dirty  work — murder — in  there. 
The  police  will  go  the  limit  to  round  up  everybody  they 
can  find  who  was  in  Baldy  Jack's.  There's  only  one 
thing  to  do — keep  your  mouth  shut  and  lie  low  to-night. 
You  can't  take  any  chances  of  getting  into  this — you  look 
like  a  man  who's  got  a  decent  job  he  doesn't  want  to 
lose,  and  you  don't  look  like  a  man  who  is  entitled  to  be 
saddled  with  a  reputation  for  hanging  around  that  sort 
of  place.  Do  you  live  near  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  Klanner,  a  little  dully. 

"Well  then,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  quietly,  "get  out  of  this 
neighbourhood  for  the  night.  Don't  risk  recognition 
while  the  chase  is  hot.  Go  uptown  somewhere  to  any 
hotel  you  like,  and  stay  there  in  your  room.  You  can  go 
to  work  just  as  well  from  there  in  the  morning.  Got  any 
money  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Klanner  slowly.  "Yes,  I  got  some  money 
— and  I  guess  you're  right.  Say,  who  are  you  anyway? 
You  seem  to  have  a  line  on  this  sort  of  thing,  and  I 
guess  I  owe  you  a  whole  skin.  If  you  hadn't " 

"I'm  a  man  in  a  hurry,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  whimsically 
— and  then  the  grim  note  crept  back  into  his  voice.  "I 
am  giving  you  a  straight  tip.  Take  it — and  take  that 
street  car  that's  coming  along  there."  He  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Sure !"  said  Klanner.    "And  I " 

"Good-night,"  said  Jimmie  Dale,  and  started  abruptly 
across  the  street,  entering  the  lane  on  the  other  side  again 
— but  here,  in  the  shadows,  he  paused  for  a  moment, 
patching  until  Klanner  boarded  the  uptown  car. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AT  FIVE  MINUTES  OF  TWELVE 

TWENTY  minutes  later,  well  along  the  East  River 
front,  in  an  unsavoury  and  deserted  neighbourhood, 
Jimmie  Dale  was  crouched  before  the  door  of  a  small 
building  that  seemed  built  half  on  the  shore  edge,  and 
half  on  an  old  and  run-down  pier  that  extended  out  into 
the  water.  The  building  itself  was  little  more  than  a 
storage  shed,  and  originally  had  probably  laid  claims  to 
nothing  more  pretentious — to-day  it  served  as  warehouse 
and  office  for  Hunchback  Joe's  "business,"  and,  above, 
for  Hunchback  Joe's  living  quarters.  Jimmie  Dale 
glanced  around  him  sharply — not  for  the  first  time. 
There  were  no  other  buildings  in  his  immediate  vicinity, 
and  such  as  could  be  seen  loomed  up  only  as  black, 
shadowy,  distant  shapes — warehouses  and  small  factories, 
for  the  most  part,  and  empty  and  deserted  now  at  night. 
It  was  intensely  black — only  a  twinkling  light  here  and 
there  from  a  passing  craft  on  the  river,  and  the  glow 
from  thousands  of  street  lamps  that,  like  some  strange 
aerial  illumination,  hovered  over  the  opposite  shore. 
The  shed  itself,  windowless  at  least  in  front,  was  as 
silent,  as  deserted,  and  as  black  as  all  around  it. 

Jimmie  Dale's  hand  stole  into  his  pocket,  produced  a 
black  silk  mask,  adjusted  the  mask  over  his  face — and 
then  the  deft,  slim  fingers  were  at  work  with  a  little  steel 
instrument  on  the  door  lock.  A  moment  more,  and  the 
door  swung  silently  inward,  slowly,  inch  by  inch.  He 
listened  intently.  There  was  no  sound.  He  stepped  in- 

330 


AT  FIVE  MINUTES  OF  TWELVE       331 

'  aide,  and  silently  closed  and  locked  the  door  behind  him. 
If  Hunchback  Joe  had  not  returned  yet,  it  was  quite 
necessary  that  Hunchback  Joe  should  find  the  door  as  he 
had  left  it — locked!  Again  Jimmie  Dale  listened — and 
then  the  ray  of  his  flashlight  circled  the  place.  A  mis- 
cellany of  ship's  junk  was  piled  without  any  attempt  at 
order  all  over  the  place;  a  board  partition  with  two 
small  windows,  one  on  each  side  of  the  door,  ran  from 
side  to  side  of  the  shed  about  a  third  of  the  way  up  its 
length;  and  in  the  sides  of  the  shed  itself  were  also  two 
small,  narrow  windows — too  small  and  too  narrow,  Jim- 
mie Dale  noted  grimly,  for  the  passage  of  a  man's  body. 
He  moved  forward  cautiously,  though  he  was  almost 
certain  that  he  was  ahead  of  Hunchback  Joe.  He,  Jim- 
mie Dale,  had  come  without  an  instant's  loss  of  time 
from  Baldy  Jack's,  and  it  was  more  than  an  even  chance 
that  Hunchback  Joe  would  have  remained  somewhere  in 
the  neighbourhood  until  the  affair  was  over.  It  would 
take  some  little  time — not  until  after  the  police  had  re- 
stored order — to  discover  that  the  attempt  upon  Klanner 
had  been  abortive,  that  Klanner's  body  was  not  lying 
there  dead  on  the  floor.  But  after  that — Jimmie  Dale 
opened  the  door  of  the  partition  stealthily,  slipped 
through,  and,  as  his  flashlight  swept  around  again, 
nodded  his  head  sharply — yes,  he  had  thought  so ! — there 
was  a  means  of  communication  here — a  telephone.  Well 
then,  after  that,  Hunchback  Joe  would  set  every  crook 
and  tool  over  whom  he  had  any  control  at  work  to  find 
Klanner.  But  that  meant  different  men  at  work  in  many 
different  directions,  and  there  must  therefore  be  some 
central  spot  where  Hunchback  Joe  could  be  instantly 
reached  and  reports  made  to  him  should  Klanner  be 
found — and  what  better  place,  what  more  likely  place 
than  here  in  the  security  of  his  own  lair!  Yes,  Hunch- 
back Joe,  since  he,  Jimmie  Dale,  was  now  satisfied  that 


332       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

the  other  had  not  yet  returned,  would  be  back  here,  and, 
in  all  probability,  long  before  midnight.  Midnight! 
Why  had  the  Tocsin  set  midnight,  waited  for  midnight 
as  the  hour  for  the  Secret  Service  raid?  Did  she  have 
a  hidden  purpose  in  that?  Was  it  possible  she  knew  that 
some  one  beside  Hunchback  Joe  would  also  be  here  at 
that  hour — that  Clarke  might  be  here,  too!  Well,  why 
not!  There  might  well  be  need  for  a  conference  be- 
tween Clarke  and  his  unholy  chief  of  staff!  There 
might — Jimmie  Dale  frowned  savagely.  His  mind  was 
running  riot!  He  had  not  come  here  to  speculate  on 
possibilities;  for,  whatever  might  happen,  there  was 
definite  and  instant  work  to  do. 

The  white  ray  of  the  flashlight  played  steadily  now 
around  him.  The  place  evidently  served  as  the  office; 
it  was  partitioned  off  again  in  exactly  the  same  manner 
from  the  rear  of  the  shed,  making  an  oblong  enclosure 
the  width  of  the  shed  one  way,  and  a  good  fifteen  feet 
the  other.  It  was  electric-lighted,  and  contained  a  bat- 
tered table  in  lieu  of  desk,  upon  which  stood  the  tele- 
phone; there  were  several  chairs,  and  a  safe,  whose 
scratched,  marred,  and  apparently  ramshackle  exterior 
did  not  disguise  from  Jimmie  Dale  the  fact  that  it  was  of 
the  finest  and  most  modern  make. 

A  rough,  wooden  stairway  led  above.  Jimmie  Dale 
mounted  this,  found  that  it  gave  on  a  crudely  furnished, 
attic-like  bedroom,  and  then  descending  again,  he  opened 
the  rear  door  of  the  partition,  and  flashed  his  light  around 
the  back  of  the  shed.  There  were  a  few  packing  cases 
here — that  was  all.  The  shed  was  evidently  built  out 
to  the  extreme  end  of  the  pier,  judging  from  its  depth; 
and  there  had  been  side  doors,  but  these  were  boarded 
up  and  bore  evidence  of  having  been  long  out  of  use — 
and  there  were  no  windows. 

Jimmie  Dale  returned  now  to  the  front  of  the  shed. 


AT  FIVE  MINUTES  OF  TWELVE       333^ 

"Under  the  sail-cloth  in  left  corner,"  she  had  written. 
Yes,  here  it  was !  He  stooped  down,  a  twisted  smile  on 
his  lips,  and,  taking  from  his  pocket  the  packet  of  papers 
and  the  blackjack,  tucked  them  under  several  folds  of 
'.he  cloth.  "Unto  Caesar!"  she  had  said.  Well,  he  had 
rendered  back  to  "Caesar"  the  things  that  were  "Caesar's." 
He  straightened  up.  The  Secret  Service  men  would 
know  where  to  look — she  would  have  seen  to  that !  "Un- 
to Caesar!"  The  smile  died  away,  and  an  angry  red 
tinged  Jimmie  Dale's  cheeks — he  was  picturing  again 
that  scene  in  Klanner's  room,  the  bestial  deviltry  of  that 
deformed  and  hideous  creature  who,  to  cover  up  his  own 
guilt,  was  railroading  an  innocent  man  to  death.  "Unto 
Csesar !" — yes,  there  was  grim  justice  here — but  that  was 
not  enough !  Justice  might  and  would  have  its  turn,  but 
before  then  there  was  another  sort  of  justice,  too ! 

He  went  back  into  the  office,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair 
beside  the  table  where  he  could  command  the  door.  He 
laid  his  flashlight,  the  ray  on,  upon  the  table,  took  from 
his  pocket  the  metal  insignia  case,  lifted  out  a  seal, 
dropped  it  by  means  of  the  tweezers  on  his  handkerchief, 
folded  the  handkerchief  carefully,  and  replaced  the  in- 
signia case  and  handkerchief  in  his  pocket ;  then,  switch- 
ing off  the  flashlight,  he  restored  that,  too,  to  his  pocket. 

It  was  dark  now  again — and  silent.  There  was  n<? 
sound,  save  the  gentle  lap  of  water  against  the  pier,  and 
the  distant,  muffled  murmur  of  traffic  from  one  of  the 
great  bridges  that  spanned  the  river.  Jimmie  Dale's 
automatic  was  in  his  hand.  There  was  one  man  who 
stood  between  the  woman  whom  he  loved  and  her  happi- 
ness, one  man  who  had  driven  her  from  her  home  and  by 
every  foul  art  and  craft  had  sought  to  take  her  life,  one 
man,  one  man  only — Marre,  alias  Clarke.  And  once 
Clarke  were  run  to  earth,  she  was  free  forever — no  one 
else  had  any  incentive  in  hounding  her  to  her  death. 


334       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

Well,  there  was  one  man  who  knew  where  Marre  was — 
Hunchback  Joe.  And,  come  what  might,  Hunchback  Joe 
would  tell  him,  Jimmie  Dale,  to-night  where  Marre  was ! 
He  was  not  so  sure  as  the  Tocsin  that  Hunchback  Joe 
would  talk  to  the  police;  he  was  sure  that  Hunchback 
Joe  would  talk — to  the  Gray  Seal.  That  was  all.  That 
was  what  he  was  waiting  for  here  now  in  the  darkness 
before  the  police  came — for  Hunchback  Joe. 

Time  passed — a  half  hour — an  hour.  It  was  getting 
perilously  close  to  the  time  when  the  Secret  Service  men 
would  be  pounding  at  the  door  out  there,  and  the  margin 
of  time  left  for  that  grim  interview  with  Hunchback 
Joe  was  narrowing  rapidly ;  but  there  was  a  strange,  calm, 
cold  patience  possessing  Jimmie  Dale — the  man  would 
come,  and  come  in  time — he  knew  that,  knew  it  as  he 
knew  that  he  sat  there  and  lived  and  breathed. 

The  silence  was  oppressive,  heavy;  it  seemed  to  pal- 
pitate in  rhythm  with  the  lap  of  the  water  against  the 
pier.  The  minutes  dragged  by,  another  five  of  them — 
and  then  suddenly  Jimmie  Dale  sat  rigidly  forward  in 
his  chair.  The  front  door  had  hot  been  unlocked  or 
opened,  but  there  was  the  sound  of  a  footstep  now — 
from  the  rear  section  of  the  shed,  where  there  had  ap- 
peared to  be  no  entrance!  The  footstep  came  nearer — 
the  door  of  the  partition  opened — there  was  the  click 
of  the  electric-light  switch — the  light  came  on — and  then 
a  low,  savage,  startled  oath  came  from  the  doorway. 

Jimmie  Dale  did  not  move — his  automatic  was  cover- 
ing the  misshapen,  toad-like  figure  of  Hunchback  Joe,  as 
the  other  stood  just  inside  the  room.  For  a  moment 
neither  spoke — then  Hunchback  Joe  laughed  suddenly  in 
cool  contempt. 

"What's  the  game  ?"  he  demanded.  "You  don't  need 
any  mask  on  here — I  deal  with  your  kind  every  day. 
What  do  you  want  ?" 


AT  FIVE  MINUTES  OF  TWELVE       33S 

Jimmie  Dale  rose  to  his  feet. 

"This — to  begin  with!"  he  said — and,  crossing  the 
room,  felt  through  the  other's  pockets,  and  possessed  him- 
self of  the  man's  revolver.  "Now  go  over  there,  and 
sit  down  at  that  table !" 

Hunchback  Joe  laughed  contemptuously  again,  as  he 
obeyed;  but  there  was  a  hint  of  deadly  menace  in  his 
voice  as  he  spoke. 

"Go  to  it — while  you  can!"  he  snarled.  "You've  got 
the  drop  on  me.  Well,  what  do  you  want?" 

Jimmie  Dale  followed,  and  faced  the  other  across  the 
table.  Hunchback  Joe's  eyes,  with  that  curious,  un- 
pleasant trick  of  which  the  man  seemed  possessed,  were 
blinking  ceaselessly. 

"I  want  to  give  this  back  to  you,"  said  Jimmie  Dale 
quietly — and  flung  the  roll  of  bills  that  he  had  taken 
from  Klanner's  trunk  down  upon  the  table. 

Hunchback  Joe's  eyes  ceased  to  blink. 

"Why,  thanks!"  grinned  Hunchback  Joe.  "You're  a 
queer  sort  of  a  night  marauder,  you  are!  Sure  this  is 
for  me,  and  that  you  aren't  making  a  mistake?" 

"Quite  sure,"  said  Jimmie  Dale,  still  quietly.  "It's 
yours.  It's  the  money  you  planted  in  Klanner's  trunk 
a  couple  of  hours  ago." 

"I  never  heard  of  Klanner,"  said  Hunchback  Joe. 

"It's  simply  the  evidence  that  that  isn't  all  I  found  in 
the  trunk,"  said  Jimmie  Dale.  "There  was  a  packet 
of  papers,  and  the  blood-stained  blackjack  with  which 
Jathan  Lane  was  murdered  in  the  bank  this  afternoon." 

"My  God,  the  man's  mad!"  muttered  Hunchback  Joe 
under  his  breath.  "I'm  up  against  a  maniac!" 

Jimmie  Dale  had  taken  his  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  and,  carrying  it  to  his  mouth,  had  moistened  the 
adhesive  side  of  the  little  seal.  His  voice  rasped,  as  his 
hand  went  down  upon  the  table. 


336       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

"You  blot  on  God's  earth !"  he  said  hoarsely.  "That's 
enough  of  that !  The  buttons  are  off  the  foils  to-night, 
Hunchback  Joe!" 

For  the  second  time,  Hunchback  Joe's  eyes  had  ceased 
to  blink.  He  was  staring  at  the  gray  seal  on  the  table 
top  in  front  of  him,  and  now  in  spite  of  his  effort  to 
maintain  nonchalance,  a  whiteness  had  come  into  his 
face. 

"You!"  he  shrank  back  a  little  in  his  chair.  "The 
Gray  Seal!" 

Jimmie  Dale's  lips  were  thin  and  drawn  tight  together. 
He  made  no  answer. 

It  was  Hunchback  Joe  who  broke  the  silence. 

"What's  your  price?"  he  asked  thickly.  "I  suppose 
you've  got  those — those  other  things,  or  at  least  you  know 
where  they  are." 

"Yes,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  grimly,  "I  know  where  they 
are." 

"Well" — Hunchback  Joe  hesitated,  fumbling  for  his 
words — "we're  both  tarred  with  the  same  brush,  only 
you're  worse  than  I  am.  I've  got  to  pay  your  price,  of 
course.  Make  it  reasonable.  I  haven't  got  all  the  money 
in  the  world.  Tell  me  where  those  things  are,  and  name 
your  figures." 

"My  figure" — Jimmie  Dale  was  clipping  off  his  words 
— "is  a  little  information.  A  trade,  Hunchback  Joe — 
mine  for  yours.  I  want  to  know  where  Peter  Marre, 
alias  Clarke,  is?" 

Hunchback  Joe  drew  back  from  the  table  with  a  jerk. 
The  whiteness  in  his  face  had  changed  to  an  unhealthy, 
leaden  gray.  He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "That's  straight — I've  heard 
of  Marre,  of  course,  everybody  has,  he's  a  lawyer;  but 
I  never  heard  of  Clarke,  and  that's " 


AT  FIVE  MINUTES  OF  TWELVE       337 

"A  lie !"  Jimmie  Dale  cut  in,  an  ugly  calm  in  his  voice. 
"You " 

But  Jimmie  Dale,  too,  was  interrupted.  The  telephone 
on  the  table  was  ringing.  His  automatic  covering  Hunch- 
back Joe,  he  pulled  the  instrument  toward  him,  and  lifted 
the  receiver  from  the  hook. 

"Hello!"  he  said  gruffly.    "What's  wanted?" 

A  voice  responded  in  feverish  excitement: 

"Say,  dat  youse,  Joe?  Dis  is  Hoppy  Meggs.  Say, 
de  fly  cops  has  got  tipped  off ;  dey're  on  de  way  down  to 
yer  place  now.  Youse  want  to  beat  it  on  de  jump !" 

"Wait  a  minute!"  said  Jimmie  Dale.  He  passed  the 
instrument  over  to  Hunchback  Joe.  "It's  for  you,"  he 
said,  with  a  queer  smile. 

Hunchback  Joe  put  the  receiver  to  his  ear — and  a  mo- 
ment later,  without  a  word  in  reply,  returned  it  to  the 
hook.  But  he  had  risen  from  his  seat,  and,  swaying  on 
his  feet,  was  gripping  at  the  table  edge  for  support. 

"I  could  have  told  you  that,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  evenly ; 
"but  you've  got  it  now  from  a  source  that  you  won't 
question.  I  told  you  the  buttons  were  off  the  foils  to- 
night, but  you  don't  seem  to  realise  it  yet.  Three  nights 
ago  you  laid  a  trap  for  me — and  the  Pippin  died.  Do 
you  understand  what  I  mean  now  by  naked  foils  ?  You've 
one  chance  for  life — and  that's  to  answer  my  question. 
But  I'll  play  fair  with  you,  and  tell  you  that  I'm  geing  to 
see  that  the  police  get  you  even  if  you  do  answer.  Those 
documents  and  that  blackjack  are  here  in  this  place,  and 
the  Secret  Service  men  know  where  to  find  them."  Jim- 
mie Dale's  watch  was  in  his  hand.  "It's  five  minutes  to 
twelve.  They'll  be  here  at  midnight.  I've  got  to  make 
my  getaway  before  they  come.  I  need  two  minutes  for 
that,  including  locking  you  in  so  that  you  can't  get  away. 
That  leaves  you  three  minutes  to  make  up  your  mind. 
If  you  answer,  you  can  have  whatever  chance  your  law- 


338       ADVENTURES  OF  JIMMIE  DALE 

yers  can  get  you;  if  you  refuse,  you  and  I  settle  our 
score  before  I  leave.  It's  three  minutes  against  a  pos- 
sible commutation  of  sentence  to  life  imprisonment. 
Where  is  Marref" 

The  misshapen,  shrunken  thing  was  rocking  on  its 
feet.  There  was  no  answer. 

"There  are  two  minutes  left,"  said  Jimmie  Dale  in  a 
monotone. 

The  man's  eyes,  coal  black,  hunted,  the  pupils  gone, 
swept  the  room.  His  lips  were  working;  his  hands, 
clenching  and  unclenching,  clawed  at  the  table. 

"One!"  said  Jimmie  Dale. 

There  was  a  scream  of  ungovernable  fury,  the  crash 
of  the  toppling  table,  and,  reaching  out  with  both  hands 
for  Jimmie  Dale's  weapon,  Hunchback  Joe  hurled  him- 
self forward — but  quick  as  the  other  was,  Jimmie  Dale 
w?c  quicker,  and  with  his  left  hand,  palm  open,  pushed 
full  into  the  man's  face,  he  flung  the  other  back. 

And  then  there  came  a  cry — a  cry  in  a  woman's  voice : 

"Marre!" 

It  was  the  Tocsin's  voice  from  the  rear  doorway  of 
the  office.  It  was  her  voice;  Jimmie  Dale  could  never 
mistake  it  even  in  its  startled  cry — but  he  did  not  look. 
His  eyes  were  on  the  man  who  was  standing  on  the  other 
side  of  the  overturned  table,  whose  beard  where  he,  Jim- 
mie Dale,  had  grasped  the  other's  face  had  been  wrenched 
away,  and  whose  shrunken  figure  seemed  to  tower  up 
now  in  height,  and  whose  deformity  was  a  padded  coat, 
awry  now  because  of  the  erect  and  upright  posture  in 
which  the  man  stood.  It  was  Clarke,  the  master  of  dis- 
guise, who  once  had  impersonated  Travers,  the  chauf- 
feur; it  was  Marre — Wizard  Marre. 

There  was  a  ghastly  smile  on  the  man's  face. 

"Marre,"  he  said.  "Yes — Marre.  But  you  never  knew 
it,  did  you,  Miss  LaSalle — until  now !  Well,  now  is  time 


AT  FIVE  MINUTES  OF  TWELVE        339 

enough  for  you,  and  far  too  soon  for  me!"  He  flung 
out  his  hand  in  a  queer,  impotent  gesture,  as  he  threw 
back  his  shoulders.  "But  I  would  like  to  be  thought  a 
good  loser.  I  congratulate  you,  Miss  LaSalle !"  Again 
his  hand  was  raised  in  gesture — and  with  lightning  swift- 
ness, before  Jimmie  Dale  could  intervene,  swept  to  his 
vest  pocket  and  was  carried  to  his  mouth.  "And  so  I 
drink  to  your  success,  and " 

A  glass  vial  rolled  away  upon  the  floor — and  Jimmie 
Dale,  with  a  bound,  had  caught  the  swaying  figure  in  his 
arms.  There  was  a  tremor  through  the  man's  form — 
then  inertness.  He  lowered  the  other  to  the  ground. 
Wizard  Marre  was  dead.  It  was  the  colourless  liquid  of 
the  old  Crime  Club,  instantaneous  in  its  action  that 

Jimmie  Dale  swept  his  hand  over  his  masked  face,  and 
pulled  the  mask  away,  and  looked  up.  She,  the  Tocsin ; 
yes,  it  was  the  Tocsin ;  yes,  it  was  Marie — only  the  beau- 
tiful face  was  deadly  pale — it  was  the  Tocsin  who  was 
standing  over  him,  shaking  him  frantically  by  the  shoul- 
der. 

"Jimmie!  Quick!  Quick!"  she  cried.  "The  Secret 
Service  men!  Don't  you  hear  them?  Quick!  This 
way !" 

There  was  a  crash,  a  pound  upon  the  street  door.  She 
had  caught  his  hand,  and  was  pulling  him  forward  now 
out  into  the  rear  of  the  shed.  There  was  a  light  from 
the  office  doorway — enough  to  see.  One  of  the  packing 
cases  was  tipped  over,  and,  on  hinges,  made  a  trap  door. 
A  short  ladder  led  downward  to  where,  a  few  feet  below, 
two  boats  were  moored. 

"I  came  this  way.  I  followed  him,"  she  said.  "Quick 
— Jimmie !" 

It  took  an  instant,  no  more,  to  swing  her  through  the 
opening,  but  as  he  lowered  her  down  and  her  hair 


brushed  his  cheek,  there  came  a  quick  half  sob  to  Jimmie 
Dale's  lips. 

"Mark !"  he  whispered.    "Marie — at  last !" 

Came  the  rip  and  tear  and  rend  of  wood,  the  thud 
of  a  falling  door  from  the  front  of  the  shed,  the  rush 
of  feet — but  Jimmie  Dale  was  in  the  boat  now,  and  the 
packing  case  above  was  swung  back  into  place. 

"Right  ahead,  Jimmie!"  she  breathed.  "The  planks 
at  the  end  of  the  pier  swing  aside — yes,  there — no,  a 
little  to  the  right— yes!" 

The  boat  shot  out  into  the  river — farther  out — and  the 
pier  and  shed  merged  into  the  shadows  of  the  shore 
line  and  were  lost. 

And  then  Jimmie  Dale  let  the  oars  swing  loose.  She 
was  crouched  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  close  beside  him. 
He  bent  his  head  until  his  lips  touched  her  hair,  and  lower 
still  until  his  lips  touched  hers.  And  a  long  time  passed. 
And  the  boat  drifted  on.  And  he  drew  her  closer  into 
his  arms,  and  held  her  there.  She  was  safe  now,  safe 
for  always — and  the  road  of  fear  lay  behind.  And 
into  the  night  there  seemed  to  come  a  great  quiet,  and  a 
great  joy,  and  a  great  thankfulness,  and  a  wondrous 
peace. 

And  the  boat  drifted  on. 

And  neither  spoke — for  they  were  going  home. 


THE  END 


The  greatest  pleasure  in  life  is 
that  of  reading.  Why  not  then 
own  the  books  of  great  novelists 
when  the  price  is  so  small 


C  Of  all  the  amusements  which  can  possibly 
be  imagined  for  a  hard-working  man,  after 
his  daily  toil,  or  in  its  intervals,  there  is 
nothing  like  reading  an  entertaining  book. 
It  calls  for  no  bodily  exertion.  It  transports 
him  into  a  livelier,  and  gayer,  and  more  di- 
versified and  interesting  scene,  and  while  he 
enjoys  himself  there  he  may  forget  the  evils 
of  the  present  moment.  Nay,  it  accompanies 
him  to  his  next  day's  work,  and  gives  him 
something  to  think  of  besides  the  mere 
mechanical  drugdgery  of  his  every-day  occu- 
pation— something  he  can  enjoy  while  absent, 
and  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  return  to. 

Ask  your  dealer  for  a  list  of  the  titles 
in    Burfs    Popular    Priced    Fiction 


In  buying  the  books  bearing  the 
A.  L.  Burt  Company  imprint 
you  are  assured  of  wholesome,  en- 
tertaining and  instructive  reading 


THE   BEST   OF  RECENT   FICTION 

Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Affair  in  Duplex  9B,  The.     William  Johnston. 

Affinities  and  Other  Stories.    Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

After  House,  The.    Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

After  Noon.     Susan  Ertz. 

Alcatraz.    Max  Brand. 

Amateur  Gentleman.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Anne's  House  of  Dreams.    L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Anne  of  the  Island.    L.  M.  Montgomery. 

And  They  Lived  Happily  Ever  After.    Meredith  Nicholson, 

Are  All  Men  Alike,  and  The  Lost  Titian.    Arthur  Stringer. 

At  the  Foot  of  the  Rainbow.    James  B.  Hendryx, 

Auction  Block,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Aw  Hell'    Clarke  Venable. 


Bab:  a  Sub-Deb.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Bar-20.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar-20  Days.    Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar  20  Rides  Again,  The.     Clarence  E.  MulforA 

Bar-20  Three.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Barrier,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Bars  of  Iron,  The.     Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Bat  Wing.    Sax  Rohmer. 

Bellamy  Trial,  The.    Frances  Noyes  Hart. 

Beloved  Traitor,  The.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Beloved  Woman,  The.    Kathleen  Norris. 

Beltane  the  Smith.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Benson  Murder  Case,  The.    S.  S.  Van  Dine. 

Big  Brother.    Rex  Beach. 

Big  Mogul,  The.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Big  Timber.    Bertrand  W.  Sinclair. 

Bill— The  Sheik.    A.  M.  Williamson. 

Black  Abbot,  The.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Black  Bartlemy's  Treasure.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Black  Buttes.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Black  Flemings,  The.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Black  Oxen.     Gertrude  Atherton. 

Blatchington  Tangle,  The.    G.  D   H.  &  Margaret  Cote 

Blue  Car  Mystery,  The.    Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln, 

Blue  Castle,  The.    L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Blue  Hand.    Edgar  Wallace. 

Blue  Jay,  The.     Max  Brand. 

Bob,  Son  of  Battle.    Alfred  Ollivant. 

Box  With  Broken  Seals.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim- 


THE   BEST   OF   RECENT   FICTION 


Brass.    Charles  G.  Norris. 
Bread.     Charles  G.  Norris. 
Breaking  Point,  The.    Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Bright  Shawl,  The.    Joseph  Hergesheimer. 
Bring  Me  His  Ears.     Clarence   E.  Mulford. 
Broad  Highway,  The.    Jeffery  Farnol. 
Broken  Waters.     Frank  L.  Packard. 
Bronze  Hand,  The.     Carolyn  Wells. 
Brood  of  the  Witch  Queen.     Sax  Rohmer. 
Brown  Study,  The.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Buck  Peters,  Ranchman.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Bush  Rancher,  The.     Harold  Bindloss. 
Buster,  The.    William  Patterson  White. 
Butterfly.    Kathleen  Norris. 

Cabbages  and  Kings.     O.  Henry. 

Callahans  and  the  Murphys.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Calling  of  Dan  Matthews.    Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Cape  Cod  Stories.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Dan's  Daughter.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Eri.    Joseph  C.   Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Warren's  Wards.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cardigan,    Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Carnac's  Folly.    Sir  Gilbert  Parker. 

Case  and  the  Girl,  The.    Randall  Parrish. 

Case  Book  of  Sherlock  Holmes,  The.    A.  Conan  IDoyle, 

Cat's  Eye,  The.    R.  Austin  Freeman. 

Celestial  City,  The.     Baroness  Orczy. 

Certain  People  of  Importance.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Cherry  Square.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Child  of  the  North.    Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Child  of  the  Wild.     Edison  Marshall 

Club  of  Masks,  The.    Allen  Upward. 

Cinema  Murder,  The.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Clouded  Pearl,  The.     Berta  Ruck. 

Clue  of  the  New  Pin,  The.    Edgar  Wallace. 

Coming  of  Cassidy,  The.    Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Coming  of  Cosgrove,  The.    Laurie  Y.  Erskine. 

Comrades  of  Peril.     Randall  Parrish. 

Conflict.     Clarence  Budington  Kelland. 

Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.     Booth  Tarkington. 

Constant  Nymph,  The.    Margaret  Kennedy. 

Contraband.     Clarence  Budington  Kelland. 

Corsican  Justice.    J.  G.  Sarasin. 

Cottonwood  Gulch.     Clarence   E.  Mulford. 

Court  of  Inquiry,  A.    Grace  S.  Richmond. 


THE   BEST   OF  RECENT   FICTION 

Cross  Trails.    Harold  Bindloss. 

Crystal  Cup,  The.     Gertrude  Atherton. 

Cup  of  Fury,  The.    Rupert  Hughes. 

Curious  Quest,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenhehn. 

Cytherea.    Joseph  Hergesheimer. 

Cy  Whittaker's  Place.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Dan  Barry's  Daughter.    Max  Brand. 

Dancing  Star.     Berta  Ruck. 

Danger.    Ernest  Poole. 

Danger  and  Other  Stories.    A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Daughter  of  the  House,  The.    Carolyn  Wells. 

Deep  in  the  Hearts  of  Men.    Mary  E.  Waller. 

Dead  Ride  Hard,  The.    Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Deep  Seam,  The.    Jack  Bethea. 

Delight.    Mazo  de  la  Roche,  author  of  "Jalna." 

Depot  Master,  The.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Desert  Healer.    E.  M.  Hull. 

Desire  of  His  Life  and  Other  Stories.    Ethel  M.  Dell 

Destiny.     Rupert  Hughes. 

Devil's  Paw,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Devil  of  Pei-Ling,  The.    Herbert  Asbury. 

Devonshers,  The.    Honore  Willsie  Morrow. 

Diamond  Thieves,  The.    Arthur  Stringer. 

Door  of  Dread,  The.    Arthur  Stringer. 

Door  with  Seven  Locks,  The.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Doors  of  the  Night    Frank  L.  Packard. 

Dope.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Double  Traitor,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Downey  of  the  Mounted.    James  B.  Hendryx. 

Dr.  Nye.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Dream  Detective.    Sax  Rohmer. 

Emily  Climbs.    L.  M.  Montgomery. 
Emily  of  New  Moon.     L.  M.  Montgomery. 
Empty  Hands.     Arthur  Stringer. 
Enchanted  Canyon,  The.     Honore  Willsie. 
Enemies  of  Women.    Vicente  Blasco  Ibanez. 
Evil  Shepherd,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Exile  of  the  Lariat,  The.    Honore  Willsie. 
Extricating  Obadiah.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Eyes  of  the  World,  The.    Harold  Beil  Wright. 

Face  Cards.    Carolyn  Wells. 

Faith  of  Our  Fathers.     Dorothy  Walworth  Carman. 

Fair  Harbor.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln, 


THE  BEST  OF  RECENT    FICTION 

Feast  of  Hie  Lanterns,  The.    Louise  Jordan  Miln. 

Feathers  Left  Around.    Carolyn  Wells. 

Fire  Brain,     Max  Brand. 

Fire  Tongue.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Flaming  Jewel,  The.    Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Flowing  Gold.     Rex  Beach. 

Forbidden  Door,  The.     Herman  Landon. 

Forbidden  Trail,  The.    Honore  Willsie. 

Four  Horsemen  of  the   Apocalypse,  The.     Vicente   Blasco 

Ibanez. 

Four  Million,  The.    O.  Henry. 
Foursquare.    Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Four  Stragglers,  The.     Frank  L.  Packard. 
Fourteenth  Key,  The.     Carolyn  Wells. 
From  Now  On.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Further  Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale,  The.    Frank  L.  Packard* 
Furthest  Fury,  The.     Carolyn  Wells. 

Gabriel  Samara,  Peacemaker.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Galusha  the  Magnificent.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Gaspards  of  Pine  Croft.    Ralph  Connor. 

Gift  of  the  Desert.    Randall  Parrish. 

Glitter.     Katharine  Brush. 

God's  Country  and  the  Woman.    James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Going  Some.     Rex  Beach. 

Gold  Girl,  The.    James  B.  Hendryx. 

Golden  Beast,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Golden  Ladder,  The.    Major  Rupert  Hughes. 

Golden  Road,  The.    L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Golden  Scorpion,  The.    Sax  Rohmer. 

Goose  Woman,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man.    Frank  L.  Packard. 

Great  Impersonation,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Great  Moment,  The.     Elinor  Glyn. 

Great  Prince  Shan,  The.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Green  Archer,  The.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Green  Dolphin,  The.    Sara  Ware  Bassett. 

Green  Eyes  of  Bast,  The.    Sax  Rohmer. 

Green  Goddess,  The.    Louise  Jordan  Miln, 

Green  Timber.     Harold   Bindloss. 

Grey  Face.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Gun  Brand,  The.    James  B.  Hendryx. 

Gun  Gospel.    W.  D.  Hoffman. 

Hairy  Arm,  The.    Edgar  Wallace. 
Hand  of  Fu-Manchu,  The.    Sax  Rohmer. 


THE  BEST  OF  RECENT   FICTION 

Hand  of  Peril,  The.    Arthur  Stringer. 

Harriet  and  the  Piper.    Kathleen  Norris. 

Harvey  Garrard's  Crime.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Hawkeye,  The.    Herbert  Quick. 

Head    of   the   House   of    Coombe,   The.     Frances    Hodgson 

Burnett. 

Heart  of  Katie  O'Doone,  The.    Leroy  Scott. 
Heart  of  the  Desert.    Honore  Willsie. 
Heart  of  the  Hills,  The.    John  Fox,  Jr. 
Heart  of  the  Range,  The.    William  Patterson  White. 
Heart  of  the  Sunset.     Rex  Beach. 
Helen  of  the  Old  House.    Harold  Bell  Wright. 
Her  Mother's  Daughter.    Nalbro  Bartley. 
Her  Pirate  Partner.     Berta  Ruck. 
Hidden  Places,  The.     Bertrand  W.  Sinclair. 
Hidden  Trails.    William  Patterson  White. 
High  Adventure,  The.    Jeffery  Farnol. 
Hildegarde.     Kathleen  Norris. 
His  Official  Fiancee.    Berta  Ruck. 
Honor  of  the  Big  Snows.    James  Oliver  Curwood. 
Hopalong  Cassidy.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Hopalong  Cassidy  Returns.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Hopalong  Cassidy 's  Protege.    Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Horseshoe  Robinson.    John  P.  Kennedy. 
House  of  Adventure,  The.    Warwick  Deeping,  author  of  "So* 

rell  and  Son" 

House  of  Intrigue,  The.    Arthur  Stringer. 
Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame.    Victor  Hugo. 
Hustler  Joe  and  Other  Stories.    Eleanor  H.  Porter. 

Illiterate  Digest,  The.    Will  Rogers. 

Immortal  Girl,  The.    Berta  Ruck. 

Inn  of  the  Hawk  and  Raven,  The.    George  Barr  McCutcheo* 

In  Another  Girl's  Shoes.    Berta  Ruck. 

In  a  Shantung  Garden.    Louise  Jordan  Miln. 

Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.    Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Inevitable  Millionaires,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Insidious  Dr.'Fu-Manchu.    Sax  Rohmer. 

Inverted  Pyramid.     Bertrand  Sinclair. 

Invisible  Woman,  The.     Herbert  Quick. 

Iron  Trail,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Isle  of  Retribution,  The.     Edison  Marshall. 

It  Happened  in  Peking.    Louise  Jordan  Miln. 

I  Want  To  Be  a  Lady.    Maximilian  Foster. 

Jacob's  Ladder.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 


THE   BEST   OF  RECENT   FICTION 


Jean  p£  the  Lazy  A.    B.  M.  Bower. 

Jimmie  Dale  and  the  Phantom  Clue.     Frank  L.  Packard 

Johnny  Nelson.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Judith  of  the  Godless  Valley.     Honore  Willsie. 

Keeper  of  the  Door,  The.    Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Kent  Knowles:  Quahaug.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Keziah  Coffin.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Kilmeny  of  the  Orchard.    L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Kindling  and  Ashes.    George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Kingdom  of  the  Blind.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

King  By  Night,  A.    Edgar  Wallace. 

King  of  the  Wilderness.     Albert  Cooper  Allen. 

Knave  of  Diamonds,  The.    Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Kneel  To  The  Prettiest.    Berta  Ruck. 

Knights  of  the  Desert.    W.  D.  Hoffman. 

Labels.    A.  Hamilton  Gibbs. 

Ladies  of  Lyndon,  The.    Margaret  Kennedy. 

Land  of  Forgotten  Men.     Edison  Marshall. 

Land  of  Mist,  The.     A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Last  Trail,  The.     Zane  Grey. 

Leap  Year  Girl,  The.    Berta  Ruck. 

Leave  It  to  Psmith.    P.  G.  Wodehouse. 

Letters  of  a   Self-Made   Diplomat   to   His   President.     WilJ: 

Rogers. 

Light  That  Failed,  The.    Rudyard  Kipling. 
Limping  Sheriff,  The.     Arthur  Preston. 
Little  Pardner.     Eleanor  H.  Porter. 
Little  Red  Foot,  The.     Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Little  Ships.     Kathleen  Norris. 
Little  White  Hag,  The.    Francis  Seeding. 
Locked  Book,  The.    Frank  L.  Packard. 
Lone  Hand,  The.    Joseph  B.  Ames. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.    Louis  Joseoh  Vance. 
Long  Live  the  King.    Mary  Roberts  Rinehart, 
Loring  Mystery,  The.     Jeffery  Farnol. 
Lost  World,  The.     A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Loudon  from  Laramie.    Joseph  B.  Ames. 
Luck  of  the  Kid,  The.    Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Lucky  in  Love.    Berta  Ruck. 
Lucretia  Lombard.     Kathleen  Norris. 
Lydia  of  the  Pines.     Honore  Willsie. 
Lynch  Lawyers.    William  Patterson  White. 

Madame  Claire.    Susan  Ertz. 


THE  'BEST   OF  RECENT   FICTION 

Major,  The.     Ralph  Connor. 

Man  and  Maid.     Elinor  Glyn. 

Man  from  Bar-20,  The.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Man  from  El  Paso,  The.    W.  D.  Hoffman. 

Man  from  Smiling  Pass,  The.     Eliot  H.  Robinson. 

Man  They  Couldn't  Arrest,  The.    Austin  J.  Small. 

Man  They  Hanged,  The.    Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Mare  Nostrum  (Our  Sea).    Vicente  Blasco  Ibanez. 

Martin  Conisby's  Vengeance.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Mary-'Gusta.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Master  of  Man.    Hall  Caine. 

Master  of  the  Microbe,  The.    Robert  W.  Service. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Men  Marooned.    George  Marsh. 

Michael's  Evil  Deeds.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Mine  With  the  Iron  Door.     Harold  Bell  Wright 

Mind  of  a  Minx,  The.    Berta  Ruck. 

Miracle.     Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Mischief  Maker,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Miss  Blake's  Husband.     Elizabeth  Jordan. 

Money,  Love  and  Kate.    Eleanor  H.  Potter. 

Money  Moon,  The.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

More  Tish.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sen.     Louise  Jordan  Miln. 

Mr.  Grex  of  Monte  Carlo.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Mr.  Pratt.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Pratt's  Patients.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Wu.  •  Louise  Jordan  Miln. 

Mrs.  Red  Pepper.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

My  Best  GirL     Kathleen  Norris. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.     Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  South.    Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  the  Sycamore.     Carolyn  Wells. 

Mystery  Road,  The.  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Ne'er-Do- Well,  The.     Rex  Beach. 

Net,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Night  Hawk.    Arthur  Stringer. 

Night  Horseman,  The.    Max  Brand. 

Night  Operator,  The.    Frank  L.  Packard. 

Nina.    Susan  Ertz. 

No.  17.    J.  Jefferson  Fairjeon. 

Nobody's  Man.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

No  Defence.     Gilbert  Parker. 

North.    James  B.  Hendryx. 


THE   BEST   OF  RECENT   FICTION 


Oak  and  Iron.    James  B.  Hendryx. 

Obstacle  Race,  The.    Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Odds,  and  Other  Stories.     Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Old  Home  Town,  The.     Rupert  Hughes. 

Oliver  October.    George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

On  the  Rustler  Trail.    Robert  Ames  Bennet. 

Orphan,  The.    Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Owner  of  the  Lazy  D.    William  Patterson  White. 

Padlocked.    Rex  Beach. 

Painted  Ponies.    Alan  Le  May. 

Paradise  Bend.    William  Patterson  White. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Passer-By,  The,  and  Other  Stories.     Ethel  M.  DelL 

Passionate  Quest,  The.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Patrol  of  the  Sun  Dance  Trail,  The.    Ralph  Connor, 

Pawned.    Frank  L.  Packard. 

Pawns  Count,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Pearl  Thief,  The.    Berta  Ruck. 

Peregrine's  Progress.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Peter  Ruff  and  the  Double  Four.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 

Philopena.     Henry  Kitchell  Webster. 

Pine  Creek  Ranch.     Harold  Bindloss. 

Poisoned  Paradise,  The.     Robert  W.  Service. 

Pollyanna;  "The  Glad  Book."     (Trade  Mark.)     Eleanor  H. 

Porter. 
Pollyanna  of  the  Orange  Blossoms.    (Trade  Mark.)    Harriet 

Lummis  Smith. 

Poor  Man's  Rock.     Bertrand  W.  Sinclair. 
Poor  Wise  Man,  A.    Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Portygee,  The.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Possession.    Mazo  de  la  Roche,  author  of  "Jalna." 
Postmaster,  The.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Power  of  the  Glory,  The.     Gilbert  Parker. 
Prairie  Flowers.     James  B.  Hendryx. 
Prairie  Mother,  The.    Arthur  Stringer. 
Prairie  Wife,  The.    Arthur  Stringer. 
Prillilgirl.     Carolyn  Wells. 
Prodigal  Son.     Hall  Caine. 
Profiteers,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Progressive  Marriage.    Bonnie  Busch. 
Promise,  The.    J.  B.  Hendryx. 
Purple  Mask,  The.    Louise  Jordan  Miln. 
Purple  Mist,  The.    Gladys  Edson  Locke. 

Queer  Judson,    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 


THE  BEST   OF  RECENT   FICTION 

Quest  of  the  Sacred  Slipper,  The.    Sax  Rohmer. 
Quill's  Window.     George   Barr  McCutcheon. 

Rainbow's  End,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Rainbow  Valley.    L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Re-Creation  of  Brian  Kent,  The.    Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Red  and  Black.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  Lamp.    Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Red  Ledger,  The.    Frank  L.  Packard. 

Red  Pepper  Burns.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  Pepper's  Patients.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  of  the  Redfields,  The.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  Road,  The.    Hugh  Pendexter. 

Red  Sky  at  Morning.    Margaret  Kennedy. 

Renegade.    Arthur  O.  Friel. 

Return  of  Dr.  Fu-Manchu.    Sax  Rohmer. 

Rhoda  Fair.     Clarence  Budington  Kelland. 

Riddle  of  Three  Way  Creek,  The.    Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Rider  of  the  Golden  Bar.    William  Patterson  White. 

Rilla  of  Ingleside.     L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Ringer,  The.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Rise  of  Roscoe  Paine,  The.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Rivers  to  Cross.     Roland  Pertwee. 

Rocks  of  Valpre,  The.    Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Romantic  Comedians,  The.    Ellen  Glasgow. 

Romeo  in  Moon  Village.     George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Rose  of  the  World.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.    Grace  S.  Richmond, 

Rowforest     Anthony   Pryde. 

Ruben  and  Ivy  Sen.    Louise  Jordan  Miln. 

Rufus.    Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Rugged  Water.     Joseph  C.   Lincoln. 

Running  Special.    Frank  L,  Packard. 

Rustlers'  Valley.    Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Sackcloth  and  Ashes.    E.  W.  Savi. 
Saint  Michael's  Gold.    H.  Bedford-Jones. 
Saint  of  the  Speedway.    Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Sea  Gull,  The.    Kathleen  Norris. 
Second  Violin,  The.    Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Seven  Sleepers,  The.    Francis  Beeding. 
Seventh  Man,  The.     Max  Brand. 
Seward's  Folly.    Edison  Marshall. 
Shadow  of  the  East,  The.    E.  M.  Huli 
Shavings.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Sheik,  The.    E.  M.  Hull. 


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